Moonlight
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: House/Wilson FS; After Amber's death, House didn't expect to be forgiven. He also didn't expect Wilson's reaction to be so frightening and disturbing. Wilson is determined to hold onto the one person he has left -- by any means necessary.
1. Chapter 1

When House awakened from his coma, he was not alone. He felt the light pressure of a warm hand clutching his, heard a voice of quiet urgency speaking to him in tremulous relief. He turned and looked toward the source of the familiar voice, opening his mouth to speak; but his mouth was too dry, his voice too hoarse to form the question he wanted to ask.

_Why is it _you_? Where is _he_?_

It was just as well that he couldn't speak, House decided, as he followed her advice and gave up, closing his eyes and drifting back into a drug-induced rest. Cuddy had taken the time to wait at his side for who knew how long; it would be incredibly cruel – even for him – to immediately point out to her that she was not the person he had hoped to find at his side._  
_

_Hoped_ – but not _expected_. Not really.

_Why would he be here? Why would he even want to see me again? It's my fault he lost her… my fault she's gone…_

Still… he _did _hope. He couldn't help it.

Trapped in the hospital bed under Cuddy's watchful eyes, there was little for House to do but think; and the other possible outcomes of his self-induced situation were too painful and difficult to consider. There was really nothing for House to do as he lay there – slowly recovering from the injuries he had taken in a vain attempt to right the wrongs he had committed – but to hope.

His hope was stirred that first morning, when he awakened to find Wilson standing by the door, staring at him through red-rimmed, tearful eyes – and then crushed when, without a word, Wilson turned and walked away.

House barely spoke to anyone for the remaining time he spent as a patient in the hospital.

When he was released, one week after the deep brain stimulation that had triggered his seizure, he remained quiet and withdrawn. Much to Cuddy's dismay, and against her advice, House returned to work immediately, throwing himself into his work as a means of forgetting what was missing from his life.

He tried to avoid walking past Wilson's empty office, but every now and then, when his path took him past that familiar door, House could not help but glance through the narrow windows in the hopes that Wilson might have returned. Wilson hadn't spoken a word to him before taking off on his bereavement leave, and House had no idea how long it was going to be before he returned to the hospital.

_Not that he'll want to talk to me when he gets back, anyway. He blames me. He should. It was my fault. _

Still, House kept hoping that Wilson would come back, and somehow, things might be as they once had been.

Yet on the day when House ventured past Wilson's office to find the door standing open, the quiet rustling sounds of shifting papers coming from inside… he rushed by in a momentary mindless panic. He was suddenly terrified to face his friend, uncertain of how Wilson might react to seeing him outside his door. House returned to his own office, telling himself that when and if Wilson was ready to talk to him, Wilson would seek him out.

Wilson didn't seek him out.

House almost wished that Wilson would confront him and tell him off, even if it was only to tell House that he hated him and wanted nothing more to do with him. Yelling, screaming, even physical violence would have been preferable to the cool distance with which Wilson was treating him – as if their friendship had never existed.

Wilson did not seem particularly angry with House. He didn't seem particularly interested in him at all. He simply did his job in quiet solitude, and went home alone at the end of each day, without ever so much as glancing in House's direction. House told himself to just leave it alone, to give Wilson as much space and time as he needed to get past what had happened; but his heart was gripped with a cold terror that whispered continuously in his mind.

_What if he _never_ gets past it? What if he never forgives me for what happened?_

Finally, House couldn't take it any longer.

One week after Wilson returned to PPTH, House found himself standing in the open doorway to Wilson's office, trying to work up the nerve to speak. It would have helped if Wilson would have looked up, or spoken, or in some way acknowledged his presence… but he didn't.

"I'm sorry."

The pen in Wilson's hand froze mid-word for just a moment, but then he simply continued his work without looking up or saying a word.

"Did you hear me?" House demanded, his voice trembling with agitation as he stepped into Wilson's office. "I said _I'm sorry_." He paused, finally opting to fill the awkwardness with a self-deprecating joke. "Don't you want to write it down somewhere for posterity? It's not likely to happen again."

Still, Wilson said nothing.

"_Hey_!"

House raised his voice in frustration as he crossed the room, reaching out to snatch the pen from Wilson's hand. Wilson jerked away from him just in time to prevent his taking it, glaring up at him in annoyance – but nothing more. House swallowed hard, troubled by the lack of intense emotion he saw on Wilson's face. His voice was softer, trembling slightly, when he finally continued.

"I'm _talking_ to you here – and if you think it's easy, it's not. Even if you've decided to blow me off, the least you could do is _listen_ first."

Wilson passed on the easy opportunity for mockery House had left open, finally looking up at House with a level, solemn gaze. At last, he nodded slowly, his voice soft and heavy with sorrow when he spoke.

"I know. I just… can't do this here. I'm… I'm working."

Subdued by the quiet restraint in Wilson's voice, House lowered his eyes uncomfortably, swallowing as he took a step backward. Despite Wilson's reasonable explanation, he couldn't help but feel an intense sense of rejection.

"Okay," he replied without looking up. "Fine. I get it. I just… had to… never mind…"

He turned toward the door, humiliated and rejected and ready to bolt to the relative safety of his own office – but before he could take a step, Wilson's firm, decisive voice stopped him in his tracks, and he turned back again to see Wilson looking up at him expectantly, holding out a folded piece of paper.

"No, House. I mean it. I… I'm willing to talk to you, just… not here." He cast a meaningful glance around to indicate his office, before nodding toward the paper in his hand, and adding, "_Here_."

House frowned, puzzled, as he unfolded the paper and found an unfamiliar address written there. "What's this?" he asked, holding it up between his fingers. "Why can't we just meet at my place, or at…"

"_House_." Wilson's voice was sharper, impatient. "Not now. Meet me there tonight if you want to talk. After work. Sevenish. Or not. Either way – please leave now."

House was quiet for a moment, reluctant to allow Wilson to simply dismiss him like that – but realizing, ultimately, that he had no choice. Finally, he nodded his silent acceptance and left the room, eager and anxious about the mysterious meeting that night.

*****************************

House looked down at the paper in his hands, double-checking the address as he looked up at the numbers beside the door. It was an ordinary-looking one-story house in a suburban area, a place House had never seen before – but the numbers matched, and as he waited, Wilson's car pulled up and parked in the driveway.

This was the place.

House frowned, puzzled, as he waited for Wilson to approach him. Wilson nodded in silent greeting as he took out his keys and moved to open the door. House followed close behind him, stepping inside as Wilson opened the door, then followed House inside. House looked around the large, rather empty living room area, taking in the stacks of cardboard boxes, neatly labeled in Wilson's precise handwriting.

"So… when did you get this place?"

The tentative question was mostly intended to break the awkward silence, but House was genuinely curious. Wilson's mouth twisted into a grimace of discomfort as he answered, his head lowered, his voice halting and nervous.

"I got it… about a month ago. I just… need a new start, you know? I can't… can't stay in… that apartment, anymore. There's just… too many memories there, you know?"

House's face felt hot and flushed with shame, and he couldn't bring himself to respond, his eyes locked on the floor at his feet. Mercifully, Wilson kept up his nervous babble, barely leaving a moment's space for a response anyway, as he led House past the living room and down a narrow hallway.

"I've… I've made a lot of changes these past couple months. I… spent a lot of time thinking… about… what's important to me. What really matters. And… I've finally got a plan, you know?"

"That's… good," House cautiously replied, following Wilson into a small bedroom at the end of the hall, vaguely wondering why they hadn't stopped in the living room, which seemed as good a place to talk as any. "A plan is… usually a good thing."

He glanced idly around the mostly bare room as Wilson went on, taking in the narrow single bed against the wall, with a tiny, rectangular window positioned high above it. There was a small table positioned so that the television resting on it could be easily viewed from the bed, and a dresser against one wall, but no other furniture. House wondered how long Wilson had been living in this place.

_Surely he can't be satisfied with just this… maybe he just hasn't had time…_

"I'm sorry I didn't talk to you sooner," Wilson admitted, his voice gentling slightly as he carefully shut the door behind them. "I should have. I just… couldn't. I had to take some time to… to figure things out. And… I think I _did_ figure them out. Where I should go from here, what I should do – what's really important to me…"

As Wilson spoke, House was mostly listening to him, even as he idly took in his surroundings – until he noticed something strange and unsettling on the wall against which the bed was positioned, near the head of the bed.

A pair of iron shackles, attached to the wall.

A cold sensation of apprehension settled in the pit of House's stomach, as he slowly turned to face Wilson, watching with troubled eyes as Wilson nervously checked the door – which he had just locked.

"Wilson…" House's voice was low and wary, and he studied his friend's face as Wilson smiled and moved toward him with disarming ease. "What is this? Why are we here? What are you doing?"

_Big mistake… should have watched his hands, not his face…_

The thought crossed House's mind a moment too late, as Wilson reached down and easily swept House's cane from his unprepared, unsuspecting hand.

"I'm sorry, House," he said softly, regret in his dark eyes. "But I know what I have to do, and I don't have a choice."

House had feared that Wilson might hate him, might utterly reject him, might even lash out at him in violent anger. Yet in all of his expectations of how Wilson might have reacted to House's guilt, he had never imagined the calculated, determined violence of Wilson's next actions.

There was no time to duck out of the way, no time even to move, as Wilson swung the cane hard, striking House across his temple with its hard wooden handle, and sending him toppling backward to the floor. With a muffled groan of bewildered pain, House tried to rise, trembling hands grappling against the smooth stone floor. He looked up, his blood-hazed vision barely making out the image of Wilson raising the cane again.

"Wilson… don't…"

He held up a pleading hand in a weak attempt at defense… but it made no difference.

The second blow caught House across the side of the head, and sent him spiraling into silent, dark nothingness.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing House was aware of as he began drifting back to consciousness was the pounding ache in his skull. His head felt heavy and fuzzy through the pain, and when he tried to raise his head, it only intensified the sensations. He let out a weak moan as he tried to sit up and found himself abruptly jerked back down, a sharp, shooting pain from his wrists down his arms accompanying the motion.

He couldn't remember where he was or what had happened, but he felt a strange sense of alarm and urgency, as if he was in some terrible but utterly unknown type of danger.

House opened his eyes, wincing at the added pain from what seemed to be a very bright light. He blinked a few times, struggling to get his eyes to adjust so that he could make some sort of sense of his situation. Finally he managed it, squinting against the light until he could gradually open his eyes completely and take in his only vaguely familiar surroundings.

He looked around in confusion as his head gradually began to clear, taking in the narrow bed on which he was lying, in the tiny bedroom Wilson had shown him… just before…

_Wilson… Wilson! _

House instinctively tried to sit up again as it all came rushing back to him, and hissed in pain as once again he was yanked back down onto the bed beneath him. A sharp, cramping pain shot up through his arms, which were stretched taut over his head. House looked up, and his stomach lurched in alarm when he saw that his wrists were locked into the iron shackles he had viewed earlier – only moments before Wilson had struck out at him and knocked him unconscious with his own cane.

_And who knows what he's planning to do next…?_

House felt his heart rate accelerating as that unsettling thought crossed his mind. He tried to focus, desperately trying to figure out why he was here, and how he could possibly escape this rather disturbing situation. House looked up again at the chains that bound his wrists to the wall, one on either side of his head, and gave the left one a tentative tug to test its strength.

It did not give in the slightest.

However, House realized as he surveyed the situation that he could use the chains attached to the shackles to pull himself up to a seated position – which would not provide him with any definite advantage, but _would_ serve to alleviate a little bit of the powerless feeling that came with lying flat on his back helplessly awaiting whatever might be in store for him.

With some effort and no little amount of pain, House managed to sit up, bracing his back against the wall, his mind racing with a thousand different panicked thoughts, each more unsettling than the last.

_Why would Wilson do this? I know he's mad at me… hates me, in fact… will probably never forgive me… but I didn't think he'd take things this far…_

… _and… how far is 'this far', exactly?_

House's gaze fell momentarily on his cane, leaned against the wall on the other side of the door, far out of his reach. He felt a sick sensation rise up in his throat when he saw that its handle was stained with blood – _his_ blood – and remembered again the fierce, dangerous determination on Wilson's face as he had delivered the blow that had put it there.

House warily scanned the room, not sure whether to be relieved or worried that there was no sign of Wilson anywhere in sight. The television across the room was turned on, the volume low but clearly audible – certainly not loud enough to drown him out, should he choose to call for help.

_But… if he's still in the house… _

Despite his situation, House was disturbed by how frightening he found that thought. Aside from the obvious evidence, he really had no idea just how dangerous Wilson actually was. It was clear that he must be suffering some kind of grief-induced breakdown, to have acted in such a dangerous and reckless manner.

_Except… this doesn't seem impulsive or reckless… not really…_

House swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry with the troubling implications of his thoughts.

_This seems… very carefully planned. I don't think the house came pre-equipped with bondage gear… which means… he's thought this through, at least to a certain extent… which would indicate a major psychotic break, not just striking out in a moment of rash emotion…_

… _which means he's not necessarily going to be coming to his senses anytime soon…_

As his panic began to fade as he adjusted to the reality of his situation, House became increasingly aware of the familiar throbbing ache in his thigh, and the fact that he could not remember when he had taken his last Vicodin. He shifted slightly, wondering if the bottle was still in his pocket where he usually kept it – and then wondering uneasily how on earth he could get to it if it was.

House felt a cold, clenching sensation in his chest as the door to the bedroom suddenly swung open and Wilson walked into the room, a calm, speculative expression on his face. House tensed, instinctively drawing back against the wall and watching his friend in wary apprehension, having no idea what to expect from him, or even what all of this was about.

_Except… you _do_ know what this is about… don't you?_

"Wilson," House began in a low, cautious voice that was hoarse and ragged with disuse, "I… I'm sorry…"

"Don't. I don't need to hear that again. I know, and I don't blame you."

Wilson waved a dismissive hand at House's words, shaking his head as he moved further into the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed. House flinched slightly, instinctively pulling away as Wilson's thigh brushed against his leg. Immediately, Wilson's hand darted out and closed around House's left thigh, preventing him from moving away any farther.

"In case you're thinking about it, don't try to kick me, or otherwise hurt me, House. I really don't want to have to drug you – potentially harmful interactions, considering your recent injuries – but I will if you make me."

"Yeah," House muttered, his wary gaze never leaving Wilson's hand on his leg as he countered, "And blows to the head, hard enough to draw blood, aren't in any way dangerous following a serious head injury. I know you're angry, Wilson. I understand if you want to hurt me. But don't you think this is a little…"

"House… hurting you is the _last_ thing I want to do," Wilson cut him off, his voice strangely calm and even, as if he was utterly untroubled by the fact that he had knocked his best friend unconscious and chained him to a bed. "This isn't about… payback, or revenge, or whatever."

House allowed his eyes to drift away from Wilson's hand – which, although not quite touching it, was unsettling close to his damaged thigh – to study his friend's expression… which was even _more_ unsettling. Wilson's mouth was set in a soft smile that was almost serene, his dark eyes warm with affection as he met House's uncertain gaze.

House's voice was quiet and level as he asked, "Then… what _is_ this about? Wilson… what are you doing?"

Wilson didn't answer for a long moment, just staring at House in a speculative manner, before rising from the bed and pacing slowly across the room. He turned to face House again, opening his mouth to speak, but then stopping abruptly. He lowered his eyes, shaking his head slowly as he tried to find the words.

"I… I can't do it again, House," he confessed softly at last, his voice heavy with emotion, trembling with unshed tears.

House kept his voice low, calm, and filled with as much understanding and compassion as he could muster – which was understandably not much, considering the position in which he currently found himself.

"Can't do _what_, Wilson?"

"Can't… can't stand to… to lose anyone else. I just… can't let it happen." Wilson looked up to meet House's confused frown, shaking his head slowly in despair as he explained, "It wasn't your fault that Amber died, House. It wasn't _anyone's_ fault. The bus accident might have happened on her way to work the next morning, or… or anywhere. It could have been… a thousand other things besides the accident. There's no way to know… what might happen… at any time, in any way."

"Right," House cautiously agreed, not taking his eyes off his increasingly emotional friend. "Life is dangerous. There's no way to really prevent it. I get that."

"But… there _is_ a way to prevent it," Wilson insisted, his dark eyes intent with conviction as he crossed the room to House's side. "Just… make sure there's no exposure to the danger."

House felt a cold, tingling sensation creeping up his spine as he began to put the pieces together, and realize exactly what it was that Wilson intended – what were his horrifically misguided reasons for bringing House here. All at once, House knew that his friend had indeed suffered a mental meltdown, and his situation was far more gravely dangerous than he had at first suspected.

Aware that upsetting Wilson would not serve to in any way increase his chances of getting out of this, House suppressed the urge to flinch as Wilson's gentle hand cupped the side of his face, his thumb stroking affectionately over House's cheek. House swallowed hard, struggling for control of his own emotions before venturing to respond in a voice that trembled slightly.

"No… no exposure to the danger…" House echoed softly, "… no exposure… to _life_? Then, what's the point, Wilson? You can't… keep me from _living_… in order to save my _life_. Surely you have to see that that's just… just crazy…"

"It's _not_ crazy," Wilson snapped, something wild and frightening flashing in his eyes as he took a backward step away from House. "It's not crazy if it's the only way."

"Wilson… stop and think about what you're doing right now, okay?" House insisted, his voice trembling with urgency and desperation born of his ever-increasing pain, and the fear that he would not be able to convince Wilson to give up this madness. "You're not making sense. It's pointless to keep me here, chained up and miserable, to try and save my life…"

"It's never pointless to try to preserve life…"

"It is if the way you do it makes the person wanna be dead!" House snapped, his impatience finally getting the better of him. "Wilson, this is ridiculous!"

"Stop yelling at me, House…"

Wilson's voice was unsettlingly soft and even, and House's stomach lurched as Wilson reached into his pocket and took out a hypodermic needle filled with a clear, golden-colored fluid, holding it where House could see it, but not making any move to actually use it.

"… or I'll have to drug you. And you're right. That's a little dangerous, all things considered. Still – I will if I have to."

"So you're not really all that worried about my safety, are you?" House shot back, accusation in his frustrated voice. "You're trying to protect me, but apparently from everything but _you_, is that it?"

"_Stop it_!"

Wilson's voice rose in anger as he took a step closer, and House drew back against the wall, eyes locked onto the needle in his hand, waving dangerously back and forth as Wilson's hands shook violently with his rising agitation.

"House, just stop it! I'm _trying_ to _protect_ you! _You're_ the one who's making it difficult!"

As he spoke, Wilson pointed an accusing finger in House's face, his eyes blazing with hurt and fury. Instinctively, House flinched as Wilson's hand neared his face – and Wilson immediately froze, eyes widening as he stared at House, aghast at his fearful reaction. His words were hushed, horrified and disbelieving, when he finally found his voice again.

"You _really think_ that I would hurt you."

House stared at him in rising indignation, shaking his head slowly as a nearly silent laugh fell from his lips.

"Well, you know – the bleeding head wound is a pretty good indication…"

"I only did what I _had_ to do to make you _safe_!" Wilson exploded, advancing on House again before whirling around, pacing frenetically as his frustrated rant poured from his lips. "You think this is the way I want it to be? You think it was _easy_ for me to hit you like that? But I knew you'd be like this, House! I knew you wouldn't listen to reason, and I thought that a quick, simple blow to the head carried fewer risks than the use of heavy sedatives right now, so… so I did what I had to do. But can you understand that, or even dare say _appreciate_ it? No, of course you can't!"

"I'm sorry," House offered again, his voice quiet and carefully subdued. "Okay? I'm sorry, Wilson…"

"Would you _stop _acting like you're scared I'm going to hurt you?" Wilson's voice rose to a near-shout as he spun around to face House again, and House tried to resist the urge to draw away from him. "I'm doing this because I care about you – because you are the last person in my life that actually _matters_ to me, and I don't want to lose you! Can't you understand that?"

"Yes," House replied, trying to control the tremor in his voice, his eyes averted, everything about his demeanor portraying submission in a subconscious effort to appease Wilson's manic rage. "Yes, I… I understand…"

Wilson was quiet, somewhat calmed by House's words. He stared at House through suspiciously narrowed eyes, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Finally, his shoulders fell as he let out a weary sigh.

"No," he declared softly. "No, you don't." A hopeful smile rose to his lips as he nodded and went on, "But you will. It might take you some time, but… it won't always have to be like this. Sooner or later, you'll understand that this is for your own good." He was quiet for a moment before turning abruptly and heading toward the door. "It's late. I'm tired. I'm going to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

Alarmed at the prospect of being left alone, bound and in pain for such a long period of time, House jerked forward against the chains at his wrists.

"Wilson… wait a second… we can talk _now_…"

"We'll talk _later_, House," Wilson insisted sternly. "Maybe in the morning you'll be a little more receptive."

"No, _wait_…"

But Wilson was already standing in the doorway. He gave House a patient smile as he cut him off in a firm, almost parental tone of voice.

"Don't bother screaming or calling for help. This room is soundproofed. No one will hear you, and you'll just hurt your throat."

"Wilson, wait, my pills! My _leg_! I need you to…"

House's voice trailed off as he realized that he was addressing the closed door, and Wilson had already gone. He rested his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, choking back a despairing groan of pain and frustration, as he tried to focus on anything but his throbbing leg, and the interminable hours that lay ahead before he would be allowed relief.


	3. Chapter 3

By the following morning, House was nearly delirious with pain and exhaustion.

His leg had not allowed him to sleep, screaming its protest at him throughout the night. The pain had gradually worked its way from his thigh down the entire length of his leg, and by now, his every muscle was taut and trembling with the tension of dealing with it all night long. He thought he remembered screaming at one point, even calling out Wilson's name, desperate for some sort of relief.

But of course, no one could hear him.

By the time Wilson walked in the door, House barely had the strength to move or make a sound anymore. Desperation drove him to raise his head, however, blinking against the light until Wilson's face came into a hazy near-focus. The words barely formed on his lips, and he couldn't find the breath to give them sound.

"Please… my leg… _please_…"

Wilson stood there in the doorway for a moment, eyes wide with shock at the state in which he found his friend. He hurriedly set down the tray he carried, rushing to House's side and sitting down on the side of the bed. House cringed at the shifting of his agonized leg, letting out a weak, piteous sound of pain. Wilson drew in a sharp breath, a regretful grimace twisting his features as he reached into the inside pocket of House's jacket, hurriedly retrieving the orange vial inside.

"My God, House, I am _so sorry_!"

Wilson wrapped his arms around House's torso, shifting his body upwards and bracing his back against the headboard, wincing at the pained groan of protest House made in response to the motion.

"I'm sorry, House, I'm so sorry…"

Wilson kept muttering helpless apologies as he rose momentarily to take a plastic cup from the tray he'd brought into the room, then took both the pills and the cup back to the bed.

"Here," he murmured, placing one hand behind House's head to support it as he brought the pills to his lips. "Here you go…"

Wilson followed the pills with a sip of the orange juice in the cup, tipping it carefully into House's mouth and waiting for him to swallow the Vicodin before offering him another sip of juice. House swiftly drained the glass, which only barely took the edge off the desperate thirst he had developed during the many hours he had spent chained in this room without food or water.

When the cup was empty, Wilson removed his hand, allowing House's head to fall back against the headboard again. House closed his eyes, struggling to catch his breath before murmuring words of instinctive gratitude born of his former desperation.

"Thank you… thank you…"

"I'll be right back," Wilson said, rising to his feet again, his brow furrowed in a guilty, regretful frown. "I'm going to get you some more to drink…" He paused in the doorway, swallowing hard as he stared at his suffering friend through troubled, anguished eyes. "I'm _so_ sorry," he repeated before disappearing, closing the door behind him.

By the time Wilson returned with a second glass of juice, the Vicodin was starting to kick in, and House was sitting up, appearing more alert and less disoriented than he had when Wilson had left. A flash of wary apprehension passed through his wide eyes at Wilson's entrance, and Wilson tried to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach caused by that look.

He placed the glass on the tray with the food he had brought, explaining, "We'll save some for your breakfast," before coming to sit on the side of House's bed again. "How are you feeling?"

House gave him a look of indignant disgust, rolling his eyes as he retorted, "Oh, about like I've been kidnapped, bashed in the head with my own cane, then chained up and left without any sort of pain relief for over twenty-four hours."

Wilson's expression darkened with frustration as House's words reinforced the guilt he was already feeling. He rose to his feet without a word, heading toward the door.

"Wait," House protested, his tone softening with barely restrained desperation. "Don't… don't leave again, okay? I… I'm _sorry_…"

The word came with great difficulty, as House was fairly certain that he was not the one who owed an apology at the moment – but he couldn't stand the idea of being left alone for another undetermined number of hours, with nothing for company but his own panicked thoughts.

"Just… just stay," he pleaded softly. "Just stay and let's… talk for a while… okay?"

Wilson hesitated, glaring down at House for a moment in clear resentment, before relenting and slowly, reluctantly sitting down again. As he did, he pulled the small table on which he had placed the breakfast tray closer to the bed so that it was within his reach.

"Don't try anything," Wilson warned as he took a key from his pocket and moved to unfasten the cuff around House's left wrist. "I don't think you want me to have to drug you, but I will if you make me."

"No, I… I won't," House assured him, swallowing hard, watching as the iron shackle fell away from his sore, aching wrist.

Wilson carefully placed the breakfast tray on House's lap, and House noted that its contents were irresistibly tempting, given the fact that it had been nearly a full twenty-four hours since he had eaten anything. Wilson was apparently trying to win him over, as he appeared to have gone all out, serving House an elaborate and delicious-looking meal. However, House also noticed that there was no knife provided, and the fork was plastic, as was the glass, recently refilled with orange juice.

Despite his hunger, House hesitated, glancing dubiously between the food and Wilson, uncomfortably aware that in his clearly unhealthy state of mind, Wilson might have mixed some kind of drug into the food.

Noting the uncertainty and suspicion in House's expression, Wilson rolled his eyes with a weary sigh.

"I have no reason to drug your food, House."

House didn't respond, just raised a single brow as he continued staring at Wilson. Wilson held his gaze for a moment, then tried a different tactic. His tone was chillingly calm and matter-of-fact as he pointed out an uncomfortable truth.

"Besides, if I wanted to drug you, I wouldn't have to mix it into your food. If I wanted you drugged – you'd be drugged, one way or the other. So… it really doesn't matter if you eat or not… does it?"

House directed a sullen glare at Wilson, a part of him wanting to reject the food just to spite Wilson and his twisted good intentions. After a moment, however, his ravenous hunger got the better of him, and he reluctantly picked up the plastic fork from the tray in his left hand. He frowned at the awkward way it felt, holding it in the wrong hand, and looked up at Wilson again.

"You know, this might be a little easier if I was a southpaw. Or, you know – if you'd unchained the right hand."

Wilson gave him a knowing smile, shaking his head slightly. "I _did_ unchain the right hand, House – meaning, the hand that leaves you at just a little bit of a disadvantage. I'm not stupid."

"No, just insane…"

House muttered the words too softly for Wilson to quite make them out, stabbing at the omelet on his plate and shoving a forkful into his mouth. He made short work of the meal, doing his best not to openly take any pleasure in it for Wilson's benefit. He briefly considered trying to use the fork as a weapon, but after a few moments' consideration decided that the only thing worse than dangerously-insane-Wilson was, quite possibly, dangerously-insane-Wilson who'd just been stabbed in the arm with a fork.

When House was finished eating, Wilson took the tray away, rising and heading for the door again.

"Wait." House hated the anxious note of desperation in his own voice, as much as the empty feeling of fear at the thought of Wilson's leaving again, for who knew how long. "Where are you going?"

Wilson gave him a reassuring smile, annoyingly pleased with House's interest, as he gently replied, "I'm coming right back. I'm just going to get the first aid kit. I've got to take care of your head."

Once Wilson had gone, House immediately took advantage of the one free wrist afforded him and tugged at the shackle holding his right hand to the wall, trying to figure out a way to get it off – with no success. He scanned the room hurriedly for any sign of a potential weapon within his reach, and his heart sank when he found nothing.

Wilson's insane scheme had apparently been very well thought out.

Wilson was back within minutes. When he opened the door, House looked up at him guiltily, trying not to look as if he had been trying to plot his escape.

Wilson knew him too well.

"There's no point, House," he advised him in a voice of weary patience. "There's no way out."

He set the first aid kit down and cautiously approached the bed again, his mouth set in a thin, taut line of determination as he reached for House's free wrist. House immediately pulled away in alarm, shaking his head.

"No, you… you don't have to…"

"_House_…" Wilson's voice held a warning note.

"Look at my wrists," House cut him off urgently, holding up his raw, abraded wrist for Wilson's inspection. "I thought you didn't want to hurt me. Are you _seriously_ going to put that back on when my wrists already look like this?"

There was a flash of stubborn anger in Wilson's eyes as he retorted, "That's your own fault, House. If you hadn't struggled so much…"

"I won't fight you, okay? I won't try anything. Just… don't put it back on right away. Okay? I'll just sit here and not do anything, and we can just… just talk for a while…"

Wilson let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head slowly.

"_What_?" House couldn't help sounding a little defensive.

"You have _never_… _wanted_… to 'just talk' with me before," Wilson declared. "Looks like my plan might be working already."

House felt a little sick at that observation, his mouth dry with apprehension as Wilson took his hand and pulled his injured wrist closer to examine it. Wilson frowned, drawing in a soft hiss of breath through his teeth at the painful appearance of the abused limb and shaking his head in disapproval.

Holding onto House's arm just above the wrist to prevent his moving it, Wilson reached into the first aid kit and took out a tube of ointment, using his teeth to open it and squeezing some out onto the wound. A moment of tense silence fell between them as he carefully worked over House's wrist, until House finally broke it in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

"Then you do actually _have_ a plan. So… what is it?" He shook his head slightly, at a loss. "You're just going to keep me here forever? As your… your prisoner? But for my own protection, of course." There was a sharp note of bitter sarcasm to his last few words.

"Forever… but not as my prisoner. Hopefully." Wilson replied as he wound a thick layer of soft, white gauze around the treated wound. "I want things to get… _better_, House. I want you to be able to be… to be _happy_ here."

"To be happy, a person has to be free, Wilson," House reminded him, studying his friend's reaction to his words as he spoke them. "You can't just… _do_ this and say it's for my own good, and expect me to like it…"

"I don't expect you to like it," Wilson retorted softly as he raised House's bandaged wrist toward the open shackle again. "_Yet_."

House's eyes widened in alarm when he saw that Wilson meant to chain his wrist again, and he tried to pull away, desperate to retain what little sense of freedom he had remaining to him. Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw set with frustration, before opening them and locking his calmly warning gaze onto House's.

"If you insist on fighting me, House," he said softly, "I can make sure that you can't."

Remembering the hypodermic needle with which Wilson had threatened him before, House froze, a sick sensation of fear settling in his stomach. Wilson raised a single eyebrow in a silent question, one hand gripping House's wrist, the other holding the shackle, as if waiting for House's approval. Swallowing hard, House shook his head slowly, eyes lowered in defeat.

They both knew that he actually had no choice.

Wilson locked his wrist into the iron cuff, then took out the key again and unlocked his right wrist, frowning when he found it in much the same condition as the left had been. He set about treating it as well, and House found that in spite of his shock and outrage at this entire situation, he couldn't help feeling just a little grateful for the relief to his raw, aching wrists.

After a few moments of silently watching Wilson work, he broke the silence again, seeking whatever answers he could gather, in the hopes that something might help him find a way to escape.

"So… you just… bought a house? Just to service this little plan of yours?"

"That wasn't the _only_ reason." Wilson's voice was soft and sad, and he looked away as he continued uncomfortably, "I was telling the truth before. I really couldn't stay in Amber's apartment anymore. I got the house first, and _then_ the plan. Even this panic room was already installed when I bought it." He paused, shrugging slightly as he admitted, "Altering it so it locks on the outside… setting it up like something resembling a proper bedroom… _those_ were changes I made for the sake of my plan."

House was quiet for a moment, taking Wilson's words in, feeling a cold sense of dread at the amount of planning and forethought that had gone into Wilson's chilling scheme. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and cautious, as if he was well aware that Wilson might be angered by his words.

"It won't be long before people start looking for me."

Wilson smiled, utterly unperturbed, as he finished wrapping House's wrist and reached for the second cuff. The quiet certainty in his voice sent a shudder down House's spine.

"No, they won't."

House's voice was barely audible, trembling slightly, as he finally ventured to ask, "Why not?"

"I typed up a letter of resignation in your name and left it in Cuddy's box yesterday, and attached a handwritten note letting her know that you were going to stay with your parents for a while – but not before packing up your apartment. Don't worry. I saved your stuff. Most of it's in storage. Some of it's here. When… things get a little better, I'll make sure you get it back." Wilson paused, holding House's gaze to gauge his reaction as he continued, "I handed in my own resignation a couple of days ago and told Cuddy I was moving out of state. I think she was expecting it already, all things considered, so it won't seem strange to her at all." He shrugged slightly, a smug smile beginning to form on his lips. "She got your resignation a couple of days after mine. She can only assume you handed it in once you found out that I quit. I think the whole thing will look pretty natural to her, don't you?"

House looked away, unwilling to admit how frighteningly thorough Wilson's plan seemed to be.

"I covered all my bases, House," Wilson stated with quiet satisfaction. "No one will even guess that anything is wrong."

"Until my parents eventually call up the hospital looking for me, and Cuddy realizes that I didn't move back home," House pointed out, the tremor in his voice deepening with his rising fears.

"Which should be about… _never_." Wilson laughed sadly. "House… your parents aren't going to call Cuddy. If they can't get in touch with you, they'll call me. And don't think I won't have a story ready for them, because I will."

House felt a wave of hopeless desperation wash over him as he tried to find the mistake in Wilson's careful method… and found nothing that seemed to work in his advantage. He swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry, then drew in a deep, shuddering breath, struggling for control of his own mounting panic.

"You don't have to do this, Wilson." He tried again, an urgent, pleading look in his eyes as he searched Wilson's face for any sign of pity or remorse. "I get it – I _do_. I know you're just trying to protect me. If you'll just… take these chains off… I won't try to run away, Wilson. I _can't_, can I? You've taken my cane, so I can barely _limp_, let alone run…"

House's words trailed off as Wilson began to laugh softly, shaking his head with a knowing smirk. "House," he reminded gently, "I know you too well to fall for that. Do you think I'm stupid?"

As he spoke, he reached both hands toward House's head, one coming to rest at the back of his neck, the other pressing gently at the area just below the broken skin on his forehead. House instinctively flinched, his frayed nerves causing him to expect a blow, despite the fact that Wilson did not seem particularly inclined to hurt him.

Wilson found his reaction upsetting.

"House, how many times do I have to tell you that I'm _not_ going to hurt you?" he snapped. "I'm trying to _help_ you…"

"Yeah," House retorted in disgust. "I'm so sorry if I don't find the fact that you're playing doctor on the head wound _you gave me_ particularly comforting."

"Damn it, House," Wilson muttered in a dark, warning tone as he finished taping gauze over the relatively minor gash on House's forehead. "That's it. I'm done. I thought you wanted to talk, but all you want to do is insult me and put down my every attempt to help you. I'm out of here. I'll see you later."

He threw the first aid supplies angrily back into the box, slamming it shut and heading toward the door.

"Wait… where are you going?" House asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice.

"Work." Wilson gave him a small, taut smile as he opened the door. "I've got a new job at another hospital – far enough away from PPTH so as not to arouse suspicions."

"So… you're going to leave me alone for an entire shift? Chained up here with no food or water or medicine or _anything_?" House tried not to think about how pitiful he had to sound.

"You'll live." Wilson's tone was cold and stony, his irritation with House drowning out whatever sympathy he might have felt. After a moment he sighed, relenting slightly as he added, "I'll come home on my lunch break to check on you. You'll be fine for a few short hours."

He paused in the doorway, drawing in a deep breath, hesitating before adding softly, "I realize this is difficult. I'm sorry. But one day you'll understand, and… maybe even come to the point where you actually _appreciate _what I'm doing for you."

As Wilson closed and locked the door behind him, House fought back an overwhelming wave of despair… desperately hoping that he would _never _come to that point.


	4. Chapter 4

Halfway through the morning, House found himself faced with a new problem.

The need to use the bathroom hit him at about the same time the Vicodin began to wear off, and that familiar throbbing ache began to return to his leg. Over the course of the next couple of hours, with nothing to draw his attention except the mindless game shows on the television, House's desperation gradually increased until he was not sure which need was greater – only that Wilson could not return soon enough.

A tiny part of his mind not consumed with those basic needs quietly warned him against that unintentional hope.

_That's what he wants… for me to _want_ him to come back… for me to get to the place where I depend on him for every little thing, and he becomes my entire world…_

House gave a futile, frustrated tug on the shackles that held his sore wrists in place, before collapsing against the headboard in defeat.

_In a way, though… I'm already there…_

House felt a tremendous surge of relief at the sound of the door opening – immediately followed by a sense of furious irritation at himself for said relief. He turned his eyes stonily away from the eager, hopeful expression on Wilson's face, his jaw set with a momentary foolish determination not to let Wilson see how desperately he had been awaiting his return.

The affection in Wilson's eyes faded into cold, restrained anger as he tossed the fast food bag he had brought down onto the table near the bed. He then moved to the side of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared down at House with a single brow raised in speculation. House stubbornly refused to look at him, as the two of them remained locked in a silent stand-off for a long moment.

When Wilson turned without a word and walked out of the room again, House's stomach lurched with panic. The door closed firmly before he could overcome his surprise enough to speak, and he felt his mouth go dry, his brow breaking out in a cold sweat of sick fear at the thought that Wilson had left him again.

"Wilson?" he called out, hating the uncertain tremor in his voice. Despite the fact that Wilson had told him the room was soundproof, House couldn't resist the need to call out in frustrated desperation, "_Wilson_!"

There was no response.

House was blinking back tears of sheer frustration and despair – which only served to anger him further – when the door opened again, and Wilson leaned against the doorway, watching him with a slight smirk on his lips.

"Did you need something?"

House's mouth twisted in bitter resentment at Wilson's cruel question, and he looked away, his eyes focused on the wall beside him as he muttered under his breath.

"Bastard."

Wilson's mouth twitched slightly, anger flashing briefly in his eyes, but his smile did not fade as he stood up straight, one hand reaching for the door.

"I guess that's a no…"

"_Wait_."

Wilson lowered his hand, a patiently expectant expression on his face as he complied.

House's voice was low and hoarse, and he did not shift his gaze from the blank expanse of the wall beside him as he reluctantly confessed to his own weakness.

"I need my pills. And… unless you're looking forward to washing the sheets every day, several times a day… you'd better figure out a way for me to use the bathroom."

Wilson frowned, hesitating, and House realized that he had possibly discovered the first glaring error in Wilson's master plan. Apparently, Wilson had not considered this particular problem. House met Wilson's eyes at last, latching onto the tiny shred of a weakness he had found.

"Not to mention the fact that I'll eventually need to _bathe_, at some point. You can't just leave me chained here indefinitely, Wilson. I mean…" He paused, a sly hint of a smirk forming around the corners of his mouth as he concluded with false innocence, "… I'm sure you've considered all that, of course. I'd just… like you to clue _me_ in…"

Wilson's eyes narrowed at the glaring sarcasm in House's voice, his mouth tightening with irritation.

"If you try _anything_," he warned softly, slowly crossing the room to stand beside the bed, then leaning over to reach for the shackles, "I'll drug you before you can _move_. I've thought this through very well, House, and there is _no way_ that you can get away. Is that clear?"

House nodded.

"Yeah, yeah. Just hurry up. The situation's getting a little desperate here."

Wilson unfastened House's right wrist, then gently pushed his shoulder forward so that his back was to Wilson, keeping a tight grip on his free wrist the entire time. A moment later, House felt cold metal close around his wrist, and his heart sank as he realized what Wilson intended. Keeping hold of the handcuffs with one hand, Wilson unfastened the shackle from House's left wrist and drew it behind his back as well, locking his wrists together a little too tightly.

"Okay," Wilson murmured, turning House around again and wrapping an arm under his shoulders to help him stand. Suddenly, he stopped, frowning thoughtfully. "Wait. Just a second."

House took immediate notice of Wilson's unusual uncertainty, but was not sure whether that development should be a source of hope or fear. It was possible that, when faced with the practical weaknesses of his plan, Wilson would reconsider and give it up and set him free.

It was also possible that he would have a violent, mad breakdown that ended with one or both of them dead.

House had no way of knowing. He had no experience with this particular brand of crazy.

Wilson walked away for a moment, opening a drawer in the dresser across the room and taking something out before returning to House's side. House's eyes widened with dismay when he saw the thick, dark cloth Wilson was winding between his hands into a single strip. He shook his head, drawing back against the wall in a doomed attempt to evade Wilson's hands.

"_House_…" Wilson's tone was warning. "You _really_ don't want to resist. Frankly… you don't have a chance in hell of winning this."

"_No_." House stubbornly refused, turning his head away.

"Fine. Then I'll just chain you back up and go back to work."

House froze, biting his lip in frustrated indecision. After a few tense moments, his shoulders sagged in defeat, and he lowered his head slightly with a sigh. Wilson visibly relaxed as well, and House took some meager satisfaction in the realization that Wilson was clearly relieved by his submission.

_Not so sure what you would have done if I'd refused, are you?_

Nevertheless…House's rising desperation made refusal a non-option by this point.

House kept carefully still as Wilson bound the cloth around his eyes, tying it tightly behind his head. He put his arm around House again, helping him to stand and patiently waiting until he had gained steady footing.

"Good," Wilson murmured, watching carefully for any obstacles as he led House toward the door. "Don't worry. I'll help you. I just… want to be sure you don't… get any ideas about making a break for it, or starting something." He paused, clearing his throat self-consciously before pointing out, "Those things are a little harder when you can't even see where you're going."

House felt his face flush with shame at the reminder of his own helplessness. His humiliation was only intensified when he felt Wilson's hands unfastening his jeans and guiding him into position in front of the toilet. House couldn't bring himself to speak, feeling violated and vulnerable with Wilson as witness to one of his most personal moments.

He was silent as Wilson led him back through the house to the tiny bedroom and helped him sit down on the bed again. Wilson wisely left the blindfold in place as he removed the handcuffs and replaced them once more with the shackles attached to the wall. However, after a moment's reconsideration, he unfastened House's left hand again, and then removed the blindfold.

House blinked, frowning against the light… then glaring balefully at Wilson as his face came into focus before him. He snatched the fast food bag out of Wilson's outstretched hand, his eyes downcast as he reluctantly inspected its contents, feeling irritation rather than gratitude when he found a Reuben sandwich made to his specifications inside.

Wilson didn't seem to notice, smiling, clearly pleased with himself.

"I know what you like," he remarked as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah, 'cause you're my biggest fan, aren't you, Annie?" House sneered. "What's next? You going to grind up addictive drugs in my food to make me more dependent on you? Hobble me so I can't get away?"

Wilson's smile faded in an instant, and he rose abruptly to his feet. House watched with rising apprehension as hurt and defensive fury filled Wilson's eyes. His body tensed as he found himself backing up against the wall, watching warily as Wilson's hands clenched into fists at his sides. Wilson glared down at him, visibly wrestling with his own anger.

House couldn't suppress a flinch, expecting a blow as Wilson braced his fists on the bed on either side of House, leaning into his face with a cold, taut smile on his lips. Wilson waited until House hesitantly met his gaze to speak in a dangerously soft tone, deliberately cruel words that made House wince with shame and hurt.

"Both of those options seem a little redundant… don't they, House?"

Without waiting for House's reaction, Wilson stood up straight and swept the fast food bag, sandwich and all, off onto the floor. House reached toward it automatically, letting out an indignant sound of protest as Wilson grabbed his wrist roughly and forced it back into the shackle behind him. Without a word of explanation, Wilson turned and stalked toward the door.

"Wait!" House objected, his voice trembling with alarm. "Wilson… you can't just _leave_ me like this! I need my pills!"

"You don't really _need_ more than two Vicodin in nine hours, House." Wilson spat the words out in furious disgust from the doorway, turning to glare at House in clear resentment. "You can wait."

He shut the door on House's pleading protest, locking it behind him – leaving House alone in helpless, panicked desperation.

**************************

Cuddy's heart was heavy and troubled as she made her way slowly up the sidewalk to House's door, her mind slowly replaying the words of the letter she had found in her inbox.

_How could he just_ leave? _Without saying anything? Without any warning at all?_

Of course, when she really thought about it, it was not beyond the scope of reality that House might just take off if he felt like it, without letting anyone know. He placed little stock in conventional rules when it came to friendships and other relationships. Cuddy tried to rationalize away the hurt, bereft emotions that filled her at the thought that he was actually _gone_.

_Surely he would have told me himself… said goodbye. Surely he valued our friendship that much…_

A worried frown creased her brow as she reached House's door and found it standing open. Hope that House might not have left town yet mingled with apprehension at the fact that the apartment was obviously not secured. She gave a soft, tentative knock on the door, peering anxiously around it into the apartment.

"Hello? Anybody here?"

Her heart sank immediately when she saw that it was utterly bare of any furniture, or the various personal belongings she could clearly visualize in the places where they had been. In the kitchen, she could see a young woman in a uniform wiping down the counters. As she cautiously approached, the woman looked up, giving her a hesitant smile.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm… looking for Gregory House? He lives… or… lived… here?"

The young woman shook her head, giving Cuddy a blankly apologetic look. "I wouldn't know," she replied with a slight shrug. "All I know is that this apartment is vacant. I'm just cleaning it up so the owner can show it and rent it again."

"Oh. Okay." Cuddy felt numb as the cleaning lady's words sank in. She slowly turned toward the door again, calling softly over her shoulder, "Thank you."

She made her way to her car, her mind reeling with the reality of the fact she had just confirmed.

House was gone.

_I know Wilson meant a lot to him… I worried about how he'd react when he found out Wilson was leaving… but… I never expected _him_ to leave, just because _Wilson_ left… _

She frowned, troubled as she considered the general strange-ness of the situation.

… _or to leave me such a well-put, professional letter of resignation, for that matter. And it's so strange that he'd actually move home with his parents. I didn't think he got along with them that well. It's just… not like him…_

She sighed as she started her car and headed back toward the hospital, trying to ignore the burning sensation behind her eyes, blinking away the blurry sheen that momentarily obstructed her vision.

_But then… it _is_ just like House to just take off… to do whatever it is that people would least expect him to do. He takes pride in shocking as many people as he can, as often as he can… so who am I to think that I can predict his actions?_

Cuddy tried to put the stunning situation out of her mind, mentally preparing herself for the rest of the work day she had yet to complete. As she parked her car and headed toward her office, she allowed herself one final fleeting thought, filled with concern and affection for the man who had unintentionally become such an important part of her life over the last few years.

_I just hope he's okay… and that someday, I'll see him again…_


	5. Chapter 5

The minutes ticked by with interminable slowness as House waited for Wilson to return. The deep throbbing in his leg was only intensified by his knowledge of the long hours he was going to have to endure before Wilson allowed him relief. He measured the passing time by the soap operas on the television – which were somewhat more entertaining than the game shows he'd watched that morning, but would have been far more entertaining if House had been able to focus through the steadily increasing agony.

The only thing that made it even remotely bearable was the knowledge that Wilson would be back when his shift was over.

_And how screwed up is it that the highlight of my day is the point when the psychotic lunatic _comes back_ into the room? Which is exactly what he wants… he wants me helpless and dependent on him and so desperate that I'm actually eager for his company…_

House's heart sank, and he was vaguely aware of a bitter wave of self-disgust, even through the pain.

… _and it's working…_

When the series of soap operas gave way to late afternoon talk shows, House hated himself for the overwhelming relief he felt at the knowledge that Wilson's shift had just ended, and he would be home within a few minutes.

Thirty minutes later… he was still not there.

House didn't really begin to panic until another thirty minutes had passed – and still no sign of Wilson.

His mind began to race with various scenarios which might have kept Wilson from making it home on time. Perhaps he simply had to work late, or had an errand or two to run after work, or was just picking up some dinner because it was one of the two days out of any given year that he _didn't_ want to cook.

_Or maybe he had some new variety of breakdown and forgot I'm even here… or got in a car accident on the way home, and won't be coming back at all… No one even knows I'm here… no one would even think to look for me if something happened to him…_

House's frantic thoughts only became more and more terrifying as the hours passed in utter, desolate loneliness, punctuated by the pain that kept increasing, kept getting stronger and stronger until he could no longer hold onto a coherent thought for a moment before a fresh spasm of agony drove it away.

He was hungry and desperately thirsty, but neither of those needs seemed to matter in the face of the overwhelming anguish that swallowed up every other sensation. He could no longer hear the television, no longer even wonder what had happened to Wilson. All he was aware of was the pain, as he struggled feverishly, uselessly, against the bonds that held him to the bed, his throbbing leg shifting vainly in a useless attempt to ease the ache as he cried out for help that he already knew would not come.

By the time Wilson finally returned… nearly twenty-four hours had passed since he had gone.

**************************

Wilson froze for a moment in the doorway, staring in stunned dismay at the miserable sight that met his eyes.

House was lying on the bed in a near-fetal position on his side, his legs drawn up against his stomach, one arm stretched taut over his head by the awkward position of his body. He was shaking so violently that Wilson could clearly see the tremors even from across the room, and his face was coated with the sheen of the sweat that soaked his clothes.

The low, pleading moan that fell from House's lips tore at Wilson's heart, and he felt momentarily overwhelmed with guilt and regret for leaving him there to suffer throughout the previous day and night. He blinked away tears as he swiftly crossed the room to House's side, with a supreme effort fighting to keep back his sympathy for his friend, and keep his hard, unyielding expression in place.

Wilson's stomach lurched when House flinched violently away from the cautious hand he extended, swallowing back the sick flood of bile that filled his throat at his terrified reaction. He couldn't stand the idea that House was so afraid of him – and yet, he had reached a troubling conclusion during the second half of his shift the previous day.

In order to gain the full control of the situation he needed, at least for the time being – it was going to be _necessary_ for House to fear him.

_It's hard, yes… unbelievably hard to see him like this… but it's all going to be for the best… he's just got to learn..._

Wilson knelt at the side of the bed, very near to House's face, ignoring the way House tensed at his nearness, his breath quickening with apprehension as he drew as far away as his restraints and the agony he was experiencing would allow. Wilson reached out calmly to catch House's arm, pulling him easily close again, not allowing him the retreat he was seeking.

"I'm sorry it had to be like this, House," he said softly, genuine regret in his voice. "I don't want to hurt you. I'm trying to _help_ you – to _keep_ you from getting hurt."

He paused as he reached out a gentle hand to brush House's damp, disheveled hair back away from his face. House flinched, but did not try to pull away from the touch, staring up at Wilson through wide, shell-shocked eyes, and Wilson felt a rising sense of hope at what appeared to be progress, no matter how slight.

"God, House," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly, his eyes welling with fresh tears. "Don't you know how much it kills me to see you like this – how hard it was to leave you here all night? But… you have to learn. You need to understand that _you_ are not in control, here. _I_ am. I decide when you eat… when you get out of this bed… when you get your Vicodin… You _will_ cooperate and stop resisting me, House… because until you do… as much as it hurts me to say it… you will get _nothing _from me. Is that clear?"

House's eyes shone with unshed tears, and his mouth was trembling pitifully as he gasped out, barely able even to form the words. "Y-yes… please… _please_…"

Wilson felt a strange mixture of relief and horror, because he had never before seen House so desperate as to be so submissive and compliant, and now that he had seen it, he wasn't so sure it was something he _wanted_ to see.

_It can't be helped_, he reminded himself. _For the moment, it's more important that he's _safe _than that he's happy._

Still, Wilson frowned in dismay at the worn, tattered remnants of the bandages on House's wrists in a moment of indecision – before relenting a bit and unlocking the shackles, allowing House's tense, weary arms to drop onto the mattress, limp and heavy with agony and exhaustion.

_He's in too much pain… too tired to fight… might as well give him a little relief while we have the chance…_

"Come here," Wilson murmured gently as he placed his arm around House, under his arms, carefully helping him to sit up. "That's it… good… easy…"

House wasn't able to help him much, but readily submitted to Wilson's efforts, struggling to support himself on arms that still would not hold him up. Wilson gently shushed him when a frustrated, pained whimper tore from his throat, running a tender hand through his hair again as he helped him to lean against the headboard.

"Shhh, it's okay," he whispered. "It's okay… settle down…"

A convulsive swallow was visible in House's throat as he slowly, deliberately closed his mouth, eyes shut tight, breath rapid and shallow. Wilson wondered uneasily if his reaction was due more to pain or fear.

Neither option was particularly comforting.

Wilson hurried to take the Vicodin bottle from his own pocket, taking out two pills and holding them to House's mouth with one hand as he reached for the glass of water he had set on the floor beside the bed with the other. House flinched violently away from the touch of his hand, and Wilson fought to suppress the rush of frustrated annoyance that filled him in response to the gesture.

"House…" He spoke in a carefully controlled voice that held a note of warning despite his best efforts. "… it's just your pills. If you'd open your damned eyes you'd see that."

House opened his eyes, glancing uncertainly at Wilson before looking down at the pills in front of him. Immediately, his lips parted to accept the pills as Wilson tipped them into his mouth, then raised the glass and held it to his lips. House took a cautious sip of the water – and then immediately reached a shaking, clumsy hand up to clutch at the glass, as his desperate thirst returned to him with a vengeance.

"Easy," Wilson cautioned him with a soft, surprised laugh. "Not so fast, okay? Slowly…"

Despite his gentle warning, House drained the glass in seconds. Wilson rose to his feet, the empty glass in hand.

"I'll get you some more," he offered, taking a step toward the door.

Abruptly, he stopped, frowning in suspicion as he moved back toward the bed, his free hand darting out to grasp House's hair, roughly yanking his head back and leaning in close, narrowed eyes searching his face. House bit back a gasp of alarm, eyes shut again as Wilson simply stood over him for a moment, caught in his own mental debate.

"If you move from this bed," he said slowly at last, his words measured and menacing, "you'll regret it, House. I might not come back for _days_ next time. Do you understand me?"

House nodded with difficulty against Wilson's hand in his hair, then shook his head slightly, pained eyes meeting Wilson's as he whispered a breathless response.

"Won't." He shrugged slightly, a rueful smile touching his lips as he amended, "_Can't_."

Satisfied that even should House venture to disobey, he would not be able to escape the locked room – not in his current condition – Wilson nodded solemnly and released him before heading for the door. When he returned a few moments later with the refilled glass of water, he was relieved and gratified to find that House had not moved at all. He was sitting up against the headboard, blinking as his thoughts seemed to visibly clear somewhat, his breath calmer and more even now as the mere knowledge that the drugs were _about_ to take effect seemed to ease House's suffering.

"Here you go," Wilson murmured as he sat on the edge of the bed. He held the glass to House's mouth for a moment, smiling when House reached a tentative hand up to steady it. "Do you think you can manage it on your own for a minute?"

House shot him a dirty look – not the kind of horrible, unsettling looks of poorly masked terror he had been giving him lately, but an ordinary _of-course-I-can-manage-a-simple-glass-of-water-on-my-own,-idiot_ kind of look. Wilson smiled, relinquishing the glass to House's hands as he stood up again.

"I'll be right back," he stated softly. "_Do not_ get up. Okay?"

House shook his head around the glass to indicate that he would not, and Wilson watched him for a moment longer before leaving the room again and making his way back to the kitchen. He took a plastic basin from under the sink, filling it with warm water. He stopped by the bathroom on his way back, taking a soft washcloth from the cupboard and tossing it into the basin of water.

Wilson opened the door to the room again, holding the basin under one arm, glancing warily around the door before entering, just in case House might have gathered enough courage to make him foolish. House was still sitting on the bed where Wilson had left him, but he was staring down at the floor beside it with a worried expression, biting his lower lip.

He looked up when Wilson entered to meet his eyes with a trapped, wide-eyed expression of panic that made him look every bit like a little boy afraid he was about to get a spanking. Wilson followed his gaze to the floor, frowning as he noticed that the sheets on the side of the bed were soaked… and suddenly realized the cause of House's fear.

House had somehow managed to drop the half-full glass of water on the one tiny portion of stone floor left exposed by the area rug that covered most of the room. Shattered bits of glass, dripping with the remains of House's water, glittered in the light from the tiny window high above them. Wilson returned his gaze to House's face, silently seeking an explanation.

House was visibly shaken, desperation clear in his wide eyes as he shook his head pleadingly. "Wilson… I know this looks bad, but it was an accident, I swear. Please… I didn't mean to… my… my hands… my arms… I'm just so… tired, and I… I just dropped it. I didn't mean to. _Please_…"

Wilson studied his expression closely, not saying a word as he slowly closed the distance between them. It was indeed suspicious. Had House intended to use the broken glass as a makeshift weapon to take advantage of his brief freedom? It seemed a strange coincidence that the glass had fallen on precisely the one spot in the room where it would have shattered.

However, the helpless panic in House's eyes was genuine.

Wilson knew him well enough to recognize that.

And… House _was_ exhausted and weak from the terrible day and night he had spent in unrelieved agony.

_And whose fault was _that_? Not _House's_ fault…_

After a moment's hesitation, Wilson softened, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside House. House automatically flinched, one hand rising shakily as if to ward off a blow. Wilson caught his wrist in a firm but gentle hand, holding it in place until House hesitantly met his eyes, and then slowly, pointedly lowering it to the mattress.

"It's all right," Wilson reassured him. "I know you didn't mean to." He was quiet a moment before reiterating, wondering how many times he was going to have to say it, "I'm _not_ going to hurt you, House."

Wilson released House and leaned down to carefully gather the larger pieces of broken glass in his hands. He sighed as he stood up straight, frowning critically at the remaining bits of glass and water on the floor – he would need to return later with a vacuum to clean them up as well – before meeting House's eyes with a reassuring smile.

"Last time," he said in a light, casual tone of voice. "Be right back."

When Wilson returned to find House just where he had left him, his confidence in his decision was confirmed, and he gave House an affectionate, almost grateful smile. He brought the basin to the side of the bed, taking out the washcloth and wringing it out before bringing it to House's face with careful tenderness.

House tensed, swallowing hard, but did not pull away as Wilson washed his face, his neck, then dipped the cloth back into the basin. Next, Wilson carefully removed the tattered bandages from House's wrists, cleaning the wounds and bandaging them again. House's eyes remained downcast, and he was unusually quiet, until Wilson finished the task at hand.

"Th-thank you…"

House ventured to speak in a voice so soft that it was barely audible, and Wilson looked up sharply, stunned by the unexpected words. House's eyes were wide and glistening with unshed tears, relief and gratitude clear in his open, vulnerable gaze. Wilson felt a lump forming in his own throat, and looked away, blinking rapidly.

"You don't have to thank me," Wilson murmured. "I'm doing this – _all_ of this – because I want to take care of you, House. I… I hope that you're… starting to understand that."

House was silent, looking away self-consciously – but Wilson was more than satisfied with the progress it appeared that he had already made. Wilson was particularly gentle as he raised House's bandaged wrists to put them back into the iron cuffs behind him, relieved and hopeful when House did not resist – did not even offer a word of protest.

Wilson hesitated, considering, and then coming to a decision.

_Positive reinforcement… he needs to understand that this is the kind of behavior that gets rewarded…_

He reached up toward the shackles again and unlocked House's left wrist before standing up. House looked up at him in surprise, a single questioning brow raised. His voice was hesitant, uncertain, as he ventured a soft inquiry.

"You… you're sure about that?"

Wilson smiled, nodding slightly. "There's nothing within your reach that you can use to escape. Even the bed is bolted to the floor. Your free hand is the one farthest from the wall, so you really can't even get off the bed." He shrugged. "I'm not worried. And besides…" He paused, thoughtful, as he added, "… you need to know that… I don't want to keep you like this… all chained up and… and hurting, and…" He shook his head, a grimace twisting his mouth, a frown creasing his brow. "… I want things to be better for you."

Wilson hesitated a moment before taking the Vicodin out of his pocket again, twisting it open, then reaching out to take House's free hand in his. Ignoring House's bewildered expression, Wilson turned his hand palm up and dumped the remaining contents of the bottle – about a dozen pills – into House's hand.

House stared up at him, shaking his head in confusion and disbelief.

"I've already told you," Wilson repeated firmly, his confident smile not fading. "I don't want you to be afraid of me. I want you to understand that this is not a bad thing. It's _not_. I want you to know that things can be very good for you here. As long as you're cooperative – like you've been today – things will be a lot easier for you."

House studied Wilson's expression for a long moment, then looked down at the pills in his hand, before meeting Wilson's eyes again. He gave a slow, solemn nod in response, his voice low and almost reverent.

"Thank you."

Wilson's smile widened, his eyes bright and eager, almost childlike. "It's Saturday," he announced, "so I can spend the day with you. I'm just going to go make us something to eat and then come right back. Okay?"

House nodded again, silent as Wilson left the room, locking it behind him. He stared at the closed door for a long moment, mentally debating, wondering if Wilson might return unexpectedly. Finally, biting his lip with a slight frown, House slid his free hand cautiously down between the mattress and the wall, stopping when his searching fingers came into contact with something hard and sharp-edged.

He retrieved his prize with a grim smile, staring at it with triumph.

A shard of jagged, broken glass, a little more than an inch long, narrow and razor-sharp.

Glancing anxiously up toward the door again, House quickly replaced his makeshift weapon, making sure to put it far enough down that Wilson would not be able to see it, even if he was sitting on the bed, even if he happened to be sitting against the wall and looking downward. Satisfied that his treasure was well-hidden, House settled back against the headboard to wait for Wilson's return – and the opportunity he knew would eventually come.

It might not come today, or the next day – but eventually, his chance _would_ come.


	6. Chapter 6

Wilson returned nearly an hour later, carrying a large tray with two glasses and two plates on it. House swallowed hard, torn between his pride and the tempting fragrance wafting from the steaming food on the plates, before remembering that he had a plan – a plan which allowed him to accept Wilson's culinary offering with gratitude, and to let himself show that gratitude as well.

Wilson had to believe that House was coming around to his way of thinking.

House noticed that Wilson provided him with a fork with which to eat, but had deliberately prepared a pasta dish that did not require the use of a knife. Their drinks had been poured into plastic cups; Wilson probably did not want to take a chance on losing another of his glasses to House's clumsiness.

And after all…House only had one hand to work with.

Wilson pulled a chair from across the room to the side of House's bed, taking the remote control from the top of the television before moving to sit down. He handed the remote control to a very surprised House, who took it with a slow, wary motion, staring down at it in something akin to wonder, before looking up at Wilson again with cautious suspicion.

"Go ahead," Wilson encouraged him with a nod and a smile. "I want things to be… as close to normal as possible, you know? And eventually… eventually… _actually_ normal. So go ahead. We'll watch whatever you want."

House really didn't care much what they watched at the moment, but he needed Wilson to think that he was grateful for the gesture. Giving Wilson a hesitant smile, House changed the channel a few times until he came to a rerun of the Jerry Springer show. He momentarily reconsidered his choice – _Last thing Wilson needs right now is an hour full of people that make even his level of madness look normal_ – but then decided that it was both mindless and distracting enough to allow him to quietly plan his escape without attracting too much of Wilson's attention.

After a few moments, Wilson let out a quiet huff of derisive laughter and made some comment about the results of inbreeding, and House responded with a laugh out of sheer habit, momentarily forgetting his situation.

For just a moment, the illusion of normality seemed real – and for a moment longer, House desperately wanted to allow himself to be deceived by it.

_No… can't, not even for a moment… because if you start doing that, then you'll _never_ get out of here…_

House glanced uneasily at his remaining stash of Vicodin, laid out on the comforter beside his leg. There were ten of them left, enough to last him another day, maybe – if he was careful.

_And when they're gone… then Wilson has complete control over my pain again… could have it before that, if he decides to take these back… _

House's expression darkened, and his thoughts turned again to the piece of broken glass stashed between his mattress and the wall. His jaw set with stubborn determination as he glanced again at Wilson, whose attention was, for the moment, focused on the inane entertainment offered by the television. House's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked away, not wanting Wilson to turn and accidentally catch the expression on his face.

_After yesterday, though… if he _does_ try to take them… he's going to have a hell of a fight on his hands…_

**************************

Wilson tried to pretend that everything was normal as they ate their dinner together – but it was difficult, given House's visible apprehension of him, the way he kept casting anxious glances in Wilson's direction every few seconds… and the rather overpowering odor that filled the room, nearly overwhelming the smell of the food he had prepared and reminding Wilson of how long House had already spent chained to that wall.

Wilson fought back a wave of guilt at the realization that the night House had spent without his Vicodin, with only his pain for company, had certainly intensified the sick, stale odor of sweat that was now so potent in the room. House's senses had probably adjusted to it as it had gotten progressively worse, but Wilson was acutely aware of it, and knew that he had to do something about it.

"You stink, House," he informed his friend at last with a sigh of resignation. "I think you're overdue for a bath."

House opened his mouth as if to speak, and Wilson could almost hear the sharp retort on his lips – but it never came. After a moment, House closed his mouth again, restricting himself to a single raised brow that seemed to ask a sarcastic, accusing question.

_And whose fault is_ that_?_

"I'd… like to change your bedding, too… might make you a little more comfortable," Wilson continued, not quite looking at House in his guilty unease. He was quiet for a moment before forcing himself to meet House's eyes, searching for any tiny trace of a response as he went on in a quiet, leading voice.

"It's just… I'm not sure I can trust you that much yet."

House held his gaze for a long moment, swallowing hard, his expression solemn. Finally he spoke, his voice quiet and intent, his trembling fingers nervously toying with the edge where the comforter met the wall.

"I… I'm not going to try anything, Wilson. I'm not going to try to get away." He hesitated, his gaze downcast as he added, "I understand that you're… you're just trying to protect me, and… I won't fight you anymore. Okay?"

It was Wilson's turn to be skeptical, his eyebrows raised dubiously as he took in House's words. "Right," he drawled after a moment, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair as he gave House a speculative look through narrowed eyes. "You're just… giving up. That easily."

House was silent, just steadily returning his gaze with a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

Wilson's smile faded as he rose to his feet, anger smoldering in his chocolate gaze as he took a measured, meaningful step toward the bed. House tensed, drawing back slightly against the wall, wary eyes following Wilson's every movement. Wilson ignored House's fearful reaction, leaning over the bed and grasping a handful of House's hair to prevent his retreat. His voice was low, cold and menacing, as he spoke with clear certainty.

"No. You have never given up on anything that easily in your _life_, House. And you expect me to believe that you're just _accepting _this without a fight now?" He shook House slightly by the hair, ignoring the way House flinched and bit his lip to hold back a cry at the painful motion. Wilson's voice was nothing more than an angry mutter as he demanded, "Just how much of an _idiot_ do you think I am?"

"I d-don't," House stammered, his words rushed and uneven, his eyes closed against the threat so near to him. "It's not that. I… I don't _like_ this, Wilson… of course I don't… but… but what _choice_ do I have?"

House opened wide, apprehensive eyes to meet Wilson's suspicious gaze as he explained in a trembling voice.

"There's nothing I can do to stop you. You can do… w-whatever the hell you want to me. I know that. I'm not stupid. So… so what am I supposed to do besides just… just let you do this?"

Wilson's expression softened slightly as he considered House's words, waiting for him to go on. A flash of near-panic crossed House's face, and he swallowed hard before continuing in a hushed voice of sick fear.

"I… I can't go through a… another night like last night, Wilson. I _can't_. I'll do what you say. I won't fight. I swear it… if… if only for that reason. I… couldn't take that again…"

Wilson couldn't help but feel guilty at the reminder of the cruel measures to which he had resorted in order to gain House's submission.

_But it worked, didn't it? At least… it really_ looks _like it worked…_

"I… I want you to trust me, Wilson," House went on, his eyes lowered, his voice subdued. "I know now that that's the only way… only way that… things will change… get better. I just have to… do what you say and… and prove to you that you can trust me… and eventually… things will be better…"

Wilson felt a rush of exultation at House's words – an echo of his own hopes, in House's voice.

_Yes… yes, it's working… it's working!_

"Right," Wilson murmured, nodding in reassurance, his stance softening as his fist in House's hair became a gentle caress. "That's right, House. You're really starting to understand…"

House nodded in response, his shoulders sagging with relief as a deep, shaky breath fell from his lips. His free hand, which had stilled under Wilson's assault, resumed its nervous fidgeting with the edge of the bedcover as he leaned back against the headboard, his eyes closed as he gradually caught his breath.

"I'll have to blindfold you again," Wilson informed House gently. "It's too soon for you to get familiar with the rest of the house. And…I'll have to cuff you. I can't take any chances this early in the game. If you really understand, like you say you do – then you'll understand _that_."

House nodded, eyes downcast, keeping carefully still as Wilson unfastened the shackle around his wrist, turning House so that his back was to him and immediately replacing the shackles with a pair of metal handcuffs. Wilson frowned when he noticed that House's hands were clenched tightly into fists, every muscle in his arms taut with his anxious tension. Wilson's hands closed lightly over House's fists, and he leaned in close to his ear, trying to ignore the way House's tension seemed to increase with his touch.

"Shhh," he soothed House quietly. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

House nodded, biting his lower lips, eyes closed, as Wilson tied the blindfold over his eyes and started to lead him to the bathroom.

They repeated the earlier bathroom routine, Wilson helping House to use the toilet before leading him across the small room to the bathtub. Leaving the blindfold in place, Wilson unfastened the handcuffs, but kept a firm grip on House's free right wrist as he slid House's left arm free of the dirty button down shirt he was wearing. Wilson was encouraged that House did not resist as he fastened the other end of the handcuffs to the piping of the bathtub, leaving his left hand bound to the tub and effectively tethering him.

He touched House's shoulder, trailing his hand slowly over it in a light, affectionate caress before reaching up to untie the blindfold.

"I'm going to trust you with a little bit of privacy," Wilson informed House softly. "But I'll be close by. There are no windows in this room. If you try to make enough noise to attract attention from outside, you'll attract _my_ attention a lot sooner. And… you _really_ don't want to disappoint me now, House… not now when you've just barely started to gain my trust."

Wilson was still a little suspicious, but he knew that the only way to test the truth of House's words was to grant him a little bit of room in which to break his trust. With an effort, Wilson made himself turn and walk out the bathroom door, closing it firmly behind him.

************************

House was surprised that Wilson had actually left him alone to undress and bathe on his own. A quick survey of the room revealed that really, there was very little for Wilson to worry about in doing so. There was a bar of soap, a soft cloth, and a bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub, but nothing else – nothing that could even remotely be considered a potential weapon.

The handcuffs allowed House enough freedom of motion to get his shirt and jeans off and get into the tub, but not enough room to reach the toilet or the bathroom counter or any other item in the room. Wilson had obviously made sure that it was perfectly safe to give House this privacy before deciding to do it.

Still, House found himself strangely grateful for the freedom and solitude that felt at this point like a tremendous luxury.

_And that's a bad sign… can't let him get to me so easily… There's no reason to be _grateful_ to the guy who's holding me freakin' _hostage _against my will for letting me have a few minutes alone in the bathroom!_

That thought reminded House of his secret, and he glanced anxiously toward the door, watching for any sign that Wilson was about to open it, as he unclenched his right fist and looked down at his makeshift weapon in his hand. He was relieved to find that he had managed to hold it in such a way that it had not cut his hand.

House had known that he could not leave the glass in the bedroom, not when Wilson intended to change the sheets while he was gone. He couldn't take the chance that Wilson might find the piece of glass, and make all his efforts at gaining Wilson's trust entirely wasted. Despite that one frightening moment when he had been afraid that Wilson might find him out, House had managed to conceal the glass during the trip to the bathroom.

He crouched by the tub, watching the door warily as he hid the piece of glass behind one of the legs of the tub before standing again. He knew better than to be caught with it on his person if Wilson happened to decide to come in and check on him.

House filled the tub with hot water and climbed into it, easing his sore, aching body down into the steaming liquid with a deep sigh of pleasure and relief. He reminded himself that Wilson was doing him no favors by granting him this small liberty, but he couldn't help but relish the sweet, steamy scent of the water, the soft feel of its heat against his skin.

After about ten minutes, however, House reluctantly started to get ready to get out, wanting to be sure that he was out and dressed and ready to go – with his makeshift weapon well-concealed – before Wilson came back in to take him back to his room. Wilson had left two clean towels and a set of fresh clothes on the floor within House's reach. House hurriedly dried off and got dressed, tucking the piece of glass into the pocket of his jeans.

When Wilson returned to the bathroom a couple of minutes later, House submitted easily to the blindfold and the handcuffs, passively allowing Wilson to lead him back to the bedroom. Wilson removed the blindfold, and House saw that the bed was freshly made. He also noticed that Wilson had removed the iron shackles and replaced them with a new set, still metal, but lined with soft fabric so as to be less painful on House's abraded wrists.

As Wilson shackled House to the bed again, he spoke in a quiet voice of obvious gratitude and relief.

"I'm really glad that you're starting to come around, House. I trusted you – and you proved that my trust was deserved. That's… not all it's going to take, but… but it's a start." He ran an affectionate hand through House's hair, and House forced himself to keep still and give Wilson a slight, uncertain smile, rather than following his impulse and jerking away from Wilson's touch. "I'll be back in a little while. I've got some work to get done this weekend, and I think I'd better get started on it; but I'll be back in a couple of hours."

When Wilson left, House rested his free hand over the tiny bump in the pocket of his jeans, tracing his fingers idly over it as his mind raced, trying to decide the best course of action.

_I have to find the right time… the right way to strike… so that I can do enough damage to keep Wilson from stopping my escape, but… without hurting him _too_ bad… I don't want to kill him… just need to hurt him enough to get away…_

House knew that his chances of escape grew slimmer with every day he spent getting used to Wilson's mind games and manipulations, and he had to find a way to get away as soon as possible.

He also knew that he would have only one chance.

If he tried to escape, and failed – he would not be allowed the chance to try again.


	7. Chapter 7

Cuddy wanted to just let it go.

She really did.

Somehow… she couldn't.

She had no real reason to doubt that the details of House's sudden disappearance were just as they appeared to be. Wilson had meant a lot to House – had been the one meaningful relationship in his emotionally isolated life – and it made sense that, when abandoned by Wilson, House might simply take off and start over somewhere else.

_But… with his parents? I didn't think he got along with them very well. I could see him just… disappearing completely, not letting anyone know where he was going at all… before I could see him leaving a flawless resignation letter and informing me before going back home to live with his parents again. _

_It almost makes… _too much_ sense… or… the _wrong kind_ of sense?… for House…_

_He's not even here and he's _still _confusing the hell out of me._

Cuddy knew that even if House hadn't been completely honest with her, she should still simply let him be. If he wanted to disappear, well… that decision and the method he chose to do so were his business. A part of her was fairly certain that everything was probably all right. She would go to a lot of trouble to seek out House, only to find that he really did not want to be found, and all she would have accomplished would be to embarrass herself.

A much larger, more vocal part of her was screaming at her that something about this entire situation was just _not right_.

She considered calling House's parents and confirming that he was there, but then considered the possibility that doing so would only serve to make them worry if by any chance House was _not_ there, and to let House know that she had been needlessly worrying if he _was_.

She stopped by the post office on her lunch break and asked them to look up a forwarding address for House, but apparently, he had not left one.

_And _that_… that _is_ strange… because if House was willing to tell me and his team that he was going to be staying with his parents, why wouldn't he have his mail forwarded there as well?_

Not really sure what to do next, Cuddy found herself once more outside House's now-vacant apartment. As her car slowed to a stop in House's old parking spot, however, she noticed a flyer in the window, and parked the car and got out to take a look. It was a "for rent" notice with the name and number of the landlord.

_Maggie Morrison… it's a long shot, but maybe _she_ knows something…_

She dialed the number as she made her way back to her car, waiting through several rings before a woman's voice answered. Cuddy immediately felt a little foolish and awkward about her strange request, but did her best to explain to the woman who she was and what were her concerns, although she was already fairly certain that the woman would be reluctant to give out much information.

"I just… want to make sure he's all right. Did he say anything to you about where he was going… or why?"

"There's not a lot I could tell you if I _did_ know," the woman admitted, though she did not sound completely unsympathetic. "But I really don't know anything about all that. I didn't even see him before he left. He just left a message on my phone that he was leaving, and that he'd left a check for the last month's rent in the apartment. I went by to get it and all his stuff was already gone. I'm really sorry I can't help you, honey."

"That's all right. Thank you anyway."

Cuddy's voice was distracted as she closed her phone, staring through the windshield of her car. A worried frown creased her brow as she sat there trying to decide whether this sort of behavior was just like House… or not like him at all. A case could easily be made for either side.

And to complicate matters – House hadn't exactly been himself lately.

_He's been through hell these past few months… blaming himself for Amber's death… and then when Wilson decided to leave, too… it could have pushed him over the edge, made him make choices he wouldn't have otherwise made. At any rate, he can't possibly have been in a healthy state of mind when he left his apartment, so suddenly. Losing Wilson must have been devastating… and I wouldn't be surprised if it made him decide to do something stupid…_

Ghastly images suddenly filled her mind of House, blood pouring from his slashed wrists – lying half-conscious in his car as it slowly filled with deadly carbon monoxide – falling to his death from the roof of a large building. A chill ran down her spine as she was suddenly very sure – disguising his death by faking his own disappearance was definitely something House might do, if pushed to a point of despair where he really wanted to take his own life.

The very thought of what House might have done to himself was more than Cuddy could bear, and she desperately tried – and failed – to put it out of her mind as she made her way back to the hospital in momentary defeat.

_Please, House… please… please be okay…_

**************************

With each day that passed, House was more certain than ever that he had to find a way to make his move – and he had to do it _soon_.

He was becoming entirely too comfortable with the strange little routine to which Wilson had confined him.

He had kept careful track of the time that passed, and knew that it had been nearly a week since Wilson had lured him into the tiny remade panic room that had become his prison. He was restless and bored and going more than a little stir crazy; but once House had made an effort to appear to be complying with Wilson's wishes, Wilson had done his best to make sure that House was as comfortable as possible.

Every day while he was at work, he left the remote control within House's reach, and left House one free hand with which to operate it. He also left a generous stack of books and magazines where House could reach them, which he added to almost every day. After that one horrible day during which Wilson seemed to believe he had made his point, he made sure that House had plenty of Vicodin and good food to eat. Wilson spent most of his non-working hours in the room with House, keeping him company.

What scared House was how much he was beginning to look forward to those lengthy visits.

Now that House was feigning gratitude and no longer openly resisting him, Wilson seemed almost normal most of the time – aside from the fact that he was keeping his best friend chained to a bed in a soundproofed room, of course. He would talk to House about amusing things that happened during his workday, or interesting bits of news he'd picked up here and there, and House realized with dismay that he was eagerly drinking in every scrap of stimulation he was missing during the greater parts of his days he spent in agonizing solitude.

He knew very well the sort of toll that this level of isolation and sensory deprivation could take on a person's mind; and he knew that if he stayed here much longer, with no one for company but Wilson, his every physical and emotional need met only by _Wilson_ – he was at very high risk of developing Stockholm syndrome.

_Which is probably what he's hoping for. He went to medical school, too. He knows that if he can keep me here long enough, he can convince me that I don't really want to leave – and in his twisted up mind, he probably thinks that's a _good _thing… because I'll be happy with nothing more than this, and he can keep me "safe"…_

A shiver went down House's spine at the horrific prospect of actually falling prey to such a mindset.

_Can't let it happen. Can't let him do this to me. Have to get out of here –_ now!

Exactly a week into his captivity – House got his chance.

Wilson came home from work and unchained House's wrist from the wall, then went through the usual routine of cuffing his hands behind his back, blindfolding him, and helping him to use the bathroom. House found it particularly disturbing how this routine didn't seem quite so humiliating as it had at first.

_Doesn't matter… Won't be here much longer…_

House's treasured scrap of broken glass had survived daily transfers between sets of clothing, during the brief times Wilson allowed him to be alone to bathe and change clothes. House would carry the makeshift weapon into the bathroom in the clothes he was wearing, then transfer it to the clean set before Wilson returned. It made him feel a little safer, a little more positive about this horrible situation, just to know that it was always on his person, always ready and close at hand.

All he was waiting for was the opportunity to use it.

When Wilson led him back to the bed, House remained passive as he removed the blindfold and uncuffed his wrists. He did not resist as Wilson raised his right hand toward the shackles attached to the wall.

Just before fastening the restraint around his wrist… Wilson stopped.

House looked up at him with innocent curiosity, his heart rate accelerating with anticipation when he saw the indecisive frown that creased Wilson's brow. When Wilson met his eyes with a scrutinizing stare, House did not look away, wanting to appear as guileless and cooperative as possible. Wilson was quiet for a moment, considering, before he spoke in a soft, measured voice that was unsettlingly calm.

"You've been here a week now, House."

"Really?" House's voice was slightly hoarse, and he tried to sound genuinely surprised. "That long?"

"Yeah." Wilson was quiet for a moment before observing, "And… most of that time… you've been really good. Really cooperative."

"I've… tried to be," House agreed with a cautious nod.

"I don't want to keep you chained up forever, House," Wilson confessed with regret in his voice. "I want for us to get past that. I… I think maybe… we might be getting there, you know?"

House nodded again, slowly, trying not to appear overly eager. "I… I hope so."

Wilson hesitated a moment before letting out a short sigh. "I'm going to give you a chance," he decided. "One more step – one more chance to prove I can trust you. All right?"

House bit his lip anxiously, still nodding as he said in a soft, submissive voice, "Okay…"

"I'm going to go make us something to eat," Wilson explained. "And… in the mean time… I'm not going to chain you back up. The door will be locked of course, and there's no way to open it from the inside when it's locked… but while I'm gone, you'll have the chance to move around a little… stretch your legs… just… get out of that same boring position for a little while, you know?"

House's shoulders sagged with relief. "I know," he echoed heavily.

_I really, really know…_

He hesitated a moment before looking up to meet Wilson's eyes again and adding, "Thank you."

Wilson shrugged dismissively as he turned and scanned the room with a critical eye, picking up House's cane from where it had rested for the past week, leaned up against the desk across the room. He gave House an apologetic grimace, holding it up as he headed for the door.

"Don't trust you quite _that _much yet," he admitted, though he softened the words with a warm smile. "I'll be back in a little while."

As soon as Wilson had closed the door behind him, House rose from the bed, immediately launching into a hurried search of the room for any potential weapon that might have a bit better chance of success than the inch-long piece of glass he had been hoarding.

Unfortunately, Wilson had been very careful.

The bed itself was bolted to the floor, as were the desk and dresser. The drawers on each were fastened so that they would not come all the way out. House found nothing in any of the drawers but clothing, papers and other soft, pliable items not at all suitable for use as makeshift weapons – nothing even as sharp as a pencil.

House momentarily considered a couple of the books Wilson had brought him to read – heavy medical volumes which would probably do just as well at rendering someone in need of medical care as they did at telling someone how to administer said care. House gave the largest one an experimental swing, grimacing when the effort put a bit too much weight on his bad leg, throwing him slightly off balance in his effort to compensate.

_No… can't take that chance…_

He would have preferred not to have to actually draw blood, as in spite of everything, he didn't really want to do Wilson any serious harm. He regretted the fact that there was no weapon at his disposal to deliver a quick blow to the head, something that would leave Wilson unconscious, but no worse for wear upon waking.

No… his piece of broken glass would have to do.

House waited in tense silence for Wilson to return, mentally preparing himself to strike as he paced slowly back and forth across the room, enjoying the exercise after so long confined to one spot. He imagined the way Wilson would enter the room, his hands most likely occupied with a tray containing the food he had prepared. House knew he would likely only have one chance to strike – and it would be in that moment while both of Wilson's hands were otherwise occupied, before he had the opportunity to lock the door again.

The instant in which House heard the door open seemed to linger for minutes – and yet, everything began to feel very fast and hurried, as House allowed sheer survival instinct to take over.

"Hungry?"

Wilson was cheerful, smiling, utterly unsuspecting as he entered the room – and House supposed that that was as much a sign of his mental imbalance as anything else he had done thus far. Wilson wanted so badly for things to be normal and good between them again, he had allowed himself to be deceived into thinking they were – had even taken an active hand in his own deception.

The word was barely out of Wilson's mouth when House struck, lashing out with the glass and bringing it down across Wilson's left wrist.

Wilson let out a shocked cry of pain and fear, as the tray clattered to the floor, food and liquid and dishes scattering everywhere. Instinctively, Wilson grabbed at his slashed wrist, blood spurting between his trembling fingers even as he struggled to ebb its flow.

_Just one…_ House reminded himself as he immediately headed for the door. _That way he'll have time to get help before he comes anywhere near bleeding to death… He'll be fine… Just have to get out of here, _now_! _


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson staggered slightly, collapsing onto the side of the bed as blood poured from the deep slash across his wrist. To his horror and alarm, a rather large part of House wanted to stay and make sure that Wilson would be all right – but he knew that he couldn't.

If he didn't get out now, he might never get a chance again.

He moved toward the door as quickly as he could without the aid of his cane, relieved to see that it was standing partially ajar. If Wilson had locked it when he entered, all of this would have been for nothing. House ventured a single brief glance back in the doorway to see that Wilson was scrambling with a trembling hand to snatch up a crumpled towel from the floor beside the bed, awkwardly struggling to wrap it around the wound.

_He'll be all right. It's not both wrists, just one, so he won't bleed out before he can take care of it… but it should be enough of a distraction…_

House made his way through the unfamiliar halls of the little house, until he found the front door. His heart sank when he saw the padlocked latch on the inside. Cursing under his breath, he threw his shoulder against the door as he turned the handle, trying to dislodge the latch.

_Could go back… could see if he's okay and get the key… but if he's _too_ okay…_

House frantically scanned the living room for any sign of something he might be able to use to break the lock, his heart pounding with his rising awareness that every second that passed brought him nearer to the closing of the window of his opportunity. In a few minutes, Wilson would have his injury enough under control to pursue him; and even wounded, House knew that Wilson had quite a distinct physical advantage over him.

His quick perusal of the room brought his gaze to a familiar object leaning against the other side of the sofa, and House felt an overwhelming – and utterly irrational – sense of relief at the mere sight of it.

His cane.

A wary glance toward the doorway revealed no sign of pursuit thus far, so House quickly crossed the room to take up his cane in his hands, letting out a deep, shaky breath and just staring down at it in grateful relief for a moment before bracing it against the ground and going to the door again.

He planted his feet as best he could and lifted the cane in both hands, drawing it back and slamming the base of it against the metal latch as hard as he could. The lock seemed to shift slightly, but didn't give. House drew back the cane again, a second and a third time – and on the third try, one of the screws tore free of its mooring, leaving the latch still fastened to the door… but barely.

House pulled back his cane for a fourth and final blow – and was abruptly yanked off balance as the end of it was pulled hard from behind him, spinning him around to face a somewhat recovered Wilson.

Though… he still looked very, very bad.

Wilson had tied the towel around his wrist, but it was swiftly soaking through with blood despite his hurried efforts. The knuckles of his good hand were taut and white as he clutched the end of House's cane tightly. His breath was rapid and shallow, indicating that he was near panic at this point, his eyes dark and hooded, his lips trembling as they stood there in silence for a long moment, trying to stare each other down.

Finally, House spoke, his voice low and much calmer than he actually felt.

"You need to do a better job of wrapping that, or you're going to be in real trouble very soon."

Wilson's eyes narrowed in fury, and his trembling voice was seething with accusation as he retorted, "I think you'd better worry about yourself right now, House. You've just made a big mistake."

Abruptly he jerked on the cane, and House stumbled slightly, his grip on it instinctively loosening as his hands prepared to break his impending fall. He didn't quite lose his footing – but he _did_ lose his cane. Wilson's lips twisted into a smile of vindictive satisfaction as he lurched toward House, the cane raised like a weapon in his hands.

House dodged out of the way, leaning back against the door, and when Wilson came close enough to him, he brought his fist down in a stunning blow across Wilson's face. Wilson staggered back a step or two, but to House's dismay, was not nearly as affected by the blow as he might have hoped. With alarm, House realized that the punch probably hadn't carried the force it ordinarily would have due to the loss of muscle strength he had probably experienced during his captivity.

Well aware that he had only seconds to spare until Wilson recovered from the relatively weak blow, and that once he did his chances would be considerably worse, House tried to take his cane back – but Wilson's grip was too tight. He jerked it back away from House, staggering blindly backward away from him to avert House's efforts. House turned his attention back toward the door for the moment, jerking hard on the handle in an attempt to dislodge the latch.

Before he could make much progress, however, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his fingers as Wilson brought the cane down hard across the back of the hand wrapped around the door handle.

_So… already recovered, then. Shit._

House ducked the next blow, which fell against the door itself with a resounding crack, and scooted backward away from the door as Wilson moved in to block it, a look of desperate determination in his wild eyes as his hair fell disheveled in front of them, giving him a frightening look of madness.

"No, House," he said in a low voice that resembled a warning growl. "You're not going anywhere."

House desperately searched the room for something else he could use as a weapon, or some other means of securing his escape, and his eyes finally fell on Wilson's cell phone, on the end table beside the couch – just a few short yards away. Wilson's eyes widened as they followed House's gaze, but he was too far away to stop him from snatching up the phone and holding it up with a challenging look in Wilson's direction.

Wilson just laughed – which was needless to say a quite unsettling reaction.

"You think I'm dumb enough to leave you even the potential access to a phone?" His tone was incredulous and triumphant. "It's blocked, House. You need the access code to call out."

House's shoulders slumped slightly with what resembled defeat – but was actually relief. A soft, inscrutable smile formed on his lips as he met Wilson's eyes and held up the phone before looking down at it, stating the number's aloud as he pressed them.

"Four-four-seven-eight."

Wilson's eyes widened once again, and he shook his head slightly in wordless disbelief.

_I was right. Amber's birthday. What else would it be?_

Dead silence gave way to a dial tone, and House felt an overwhelming sense of premature relief. His hands shook over the buttons as he hurriedly dialed 9-1-1. Before anyone could answer, however, Wilson lunged at him in panicked rage and knocked him to the ground, struggling to subdue him and wrest the cell phone from his grasp.

Wilson caught House's wrists despite his desperate struggles, pinning them to the floor beside his head – just as a stranger's calm voice came through the tiny speaker next to his ear.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency? Hello? Is anyone there?"

While the woman was talking, Wilson made one last daring effort to prevent House's attempt at getting help. In a rather risky act of sheer desperation, Wilson released House's wrists, only to press one hand firmly over his mouth. House reached up and grasped Wilson's wrist – which just happened to be the injured one – and Wilson bit back a choked cry of pain. Nevertheless, determined not to lose this battle, Wilson drew back his free hand and brought it down in a fierce, brutal blow directly to House's bad thigh.

House could not hold back an anguished scream, muffled by Wilson's hand over his mouth, as his hands instinctively left Wilson's wrist and the phone, reaching toward the source of the pain. Wilson lifted his hand long enough to deliver a second punch, this one directly into House's mouth, stunning him to silence long enough for Wilson to grab the phone and disconnect the call.

Furious and desperate to get the phone completely out of play, Wilson tossed it across the room where the back broke off from the force of the blow, and the battery fell out onto the floor. House was momentarily out of commission, restrained by the weight of Wilson's body straddling him, and his own agony. He was, for the moment, in no condition to resist, but Wilson was unwilling to take any further chances. He grasped House's shaking hands and placed them at his sides, pinning them down with his thighs, before taking a moment to hurriedly rewrap the loosening towel around his wrist.

Wilson's mouth twisted into a worried grimace as he noticed the amount of blood that stained the damp towel, as well as the faintly light-headed feeling he was beginning to experience. He knew that he only had a few minutes to get the situation completely under control before his own physical weakness would defeat him. He glanced down impassively at House, who was struggling weakly beneath him, a low, keening moan barely audible from his throat as the waves of pain radiating from his thigh gradually began to fade away.

Frustrated and angry, Wilson reached behind him to close his good hand firmly around House's scar, a grim smile rising to his lips when House let out a choked sound of frantic fear and anticipation of pain.

"I didn't want to hurt you, House," Wilson stated calmly. "You know that. I _told_ you that. But you're _making _me…"

House's eyes were screwed shut, his breath shallow and rapid, as he visibly struggled against his own rising panic. He shook his head slowly in a silent, desperate plea, his dread of further pain to his most vulnerable area almost a palpable thing in the room with them.

"I don't want to knock you out, House," Wilson explained, his voice still frighteningly soft and calm. "And I don't want to drug you. It's still too soon after your head injury. If you fight me again… I'm going to have to hit your leg again. I know you don't want that… and neither do I."

House shook his head emphatically, still not daring to look up at Wilson.

"No," he whispered. "No… don't…"

Wilson cautiously rose to his feet, hesitating before reaching down to grasp both of House's wrists, holding them together in his one good hand.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice gentler now with unexpected compassion for House's pain. "I'll help you…"

House remained passive and unresisting as Wilson leaned down over him to help him up – but then drew back his good leg and released it in a sharp kick aimed directly into Wilson's stomach. Wilson let out a sharp groan at the impact, releasing his grip on House's wrists as he collapsed to the floor, the breath knocked out of him. House scrambled awkwardly to his feet, grasping the sofa for support and limping around it, avoiding Wilson as he stumbled toward the door on legs still weak with pain.

In his desperate hurry to escape, House was unaware of Wilson's struggle to recover behind him. Breathless and unable to pull himself up on his injured wrist, Wilson crawled along the floor behind House, catching up with him a few feet from the door. With an extreme effort, Wilson grasped House's ankle with both hands and yanked his leg out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor.

House struggled fiercely to push Wilson off of him, but was almost immediately paralyzed by several brutal, crippling blows to his leg in swift succession.

This time, Wilson was taking no chances.

"Damn it, House," he muttered, and strangely enough, through the pain, House was aware of and startled by the sound of tears in his voice. "I didn't want to do this, but you aren't giving me a choice!"

House flailed in blind panic when he felt Wilson's hand at his throat, grasping and holding him in place. His fruitless struggles yielded no success, however, and an instant later he felt the sharp pinprick of a needle sinking into the back of his neck. His heart sank with despair and defeat as Wilson released him and stood up, and blackness swiftly overtook him.

Wilson limped across the room, picking up the phone and putting it back together, doing his best to stay calm long enough to complete his plan for salvaging the situation. He dialed 9-1-1 again and tried to steady his breathing as he waited for the operator to come on the line.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I called you guys a few minutes ago, and… I really shouldn't have."

The young woman's voice on the other line was wary when she finally responded. "Okay… can you give me your phone number, sir?"

Wilson dutifully recited the number for her, then explained in his best voice of rueful, apologetic charm.

"I cut myself in the kitchen, and it was bleeding, and… well, it looked a lot worse than it actually was. I've stopped the bleeding on my own, and it's fine, and… well, I really shouldn't have panicked." He let out an embarrassed laugh as he added in a confidential tone, "I'm a _doctor_, for Pete's sake! I just… didn't want you guys to go to the trouble of coming out here for nothing…"

The operator laughed, her tone much lighter and more understanding now. "Well… as long as you're sure you're all right…"

"I'm quite sure, thank you. Sorry to bother you."

Wilson's smile faded away as he closed his phone and stared down at the prone form of his best friend. Disappointment filled him at the realization that House had only been faking all along, and was really nowhere near ready to accept Wilson's protection; but he didn't have time to feel sorry for himself at the moment. There were more important things to worry about.

He had work to do.

******************************

House awakened hours later, surrounded by nothing but black, empty darkness. His head ached and his leg throbbed, and his mouth was dry with thirst. He swallowed hard, and winced at the dull, aching pain in his jaw, as he realized that it was more than mere thirst. His mouth was packed with something firm and soft, restricting him from swallowing fully or closing his mouth.

He tried to open his eyes, but found himself confronted with only darkness. He tried to move, and found that that ability had been taken from him as well. He was lying down on his back, presumably on the bed in his tiny prison, with his wrists bound together somewhere above his head, and his legs fastened down as well – separate, but firmly bound and immobile.

House fought off a rising sense of panic as the full realization of his helplessness struck him, and he began to understand what had been done to him. He was worse off than ever, bound hand and foot, gagged, blindfolded, and utterly at the mercy of a man who had gone completely mad, and was probably at the moment absolutely furious with him.

He froze as he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and flinched away when he sensed motion in front of his face.

"Shhh," Wilson's voice murmured near his ear, cool, but not overtly angry. "It's not time to wake up yet."

As House felt the needle sliding in again, he wondered vaguely about what effects whatever sedative Wilson was using might have on him. Just before drifting into unconsciousness again, House's last thought was that trying to escape had been a terribly foolish mistake.


	9. Chapter 9

Gradually awareness returned to House – along with the searing pain in his right thigh, so intense that his first conscious thought was to wonder how long it had been since he had last had Vicodin.

He was still blindfolded, his mouth packed with something soft but firm, preventing him from speaking. His best efforts at a groaning protest against the pain he was in resulted in nothing more than a muffled, barely audible whimper. House tried to lower his arms, but they were bound even more tightly than they had been before, stretched taut over his head and fastened in iron shackles. His ankles were bound in a similar manner so that he was lying spread eagle, unable to free himself from his bonds, or even move.

The surface beneath him felt soft, but thin; he could feel something hard and unyielding through it, and guessed that he was probably lying on a thin mattress on the floor – wherever he was. The air in the room smelled slightly musty and stale, different from the tiny bedroom in which he had spent the last few weeks. The cool, slightly damp feeling of the air on his bare skin made him think of a basement, or some other underground location.

_Wait… what…?  
_

A shock of fear and humiliation gripped House as he realized that he was feeling the cool draft of air over his body in places where he shouldn't have felt it.

His clothing had been removed.

Panic seized him, and he began to fight instinctively against his bonds, thrashing on the thin mattress beneath him as he struggled to free himself – to no effect. He tried again to cry out, tried to draw some attention to himself, though he had no idea whether or not it would do any good. It seemed certain that Wilson had moved him at some point while he was unconscious, but House had no idea to where or for what purpose – or if there was anyone even remotely within hearing distance.

The iron bonds did not give in the slightest, but that only added to House's terror, and he intensified his struggles, breathing heavily through his nose, a strangled sound of panic rising in his throat when he couldn't seem to draw in enough air. He felt smothered and claustrophobic, on the edge of blacking out – not that he would have known the difference with his sight stolen from him.

"You know, I've been going about this all wrong."

House went still, his harsh, rapid breaths echoing loudly in the soundless, stone room. He heard a soft metallic vibration close at hand, and wished with frantic irritation that it would just _stop_ – before realizing all at once that it was the shackles that bound him, and it was his own violent trembling that caused the sound.

Something about Wilson's voice sent an apprehensive shiver down his spine. It was not touched by the doting concern that had filled it during these last few weeks. In fact, Wilson's tone was cold and detached, yielding no indication that he cared about House's fear and discomfort in the slightest.

_If he's had another break… if this is another side of his delusions I'm dealing with now… he could be more dangerous than ever…_

"You thrive on rationality. You're probably the most intelligent person I know." Wilson's voice was calm and casual, and House tensed as he heard it draw gradually closer, accompanied by the approaching sound of dress shoes on cement. "So naturally, I assumed that we could talk about this like a couple of adults – that you could see the rationality of my plan, and accept that this is what we have to do."

_But it's not! You're insane! Wilson, you need help, you have to let me go so I can help you!_

Wilson paused, letting out a heavy sigh of resignation, not even acknowledging the desperate, choked sounds that left House's throat as he struggled to speak past the makeshift gag in his mouth.

"I assumed wrong." A hard note crept into Wilson's voice that made House's stomach feel queasy. "And I should have known. When it comes to you getting what you want, your rationality doesn't really play into it – ever. Why would I think that you would listen to reason _now_, when you never have before? Whatever you want, House: that's what you do your best to make happen – even when it's the worst possible thing for you. I've only been trying to do what's best for you, and you've been fighting me at every turn."

_But you don't _know_ what's best for me; you don't even know what's best for _you_. Wilson, you're sick. You're sick, and you're going to kill us both before this is over…_

Wilson continued, oblivious to – or simply unconcerned by – the despairing thoughts that filled House's mind. His voice was frighteningly calm and clinical, and House felt his chest constrict with fear.

"So… we're going to try a different method."

House flinched a moment later when he felt Wilson's hands on his wrists, pulling slightly to test the strength of the bonds. He did not react as strongly when Wilson checked the ankle restraints, because he was expecting it; but when he felt a strong, warm hand trailing across his bare thigh – gentle but warning fingers coming to rest over the mangled flesh of his scar – House felt all the air sucked out of his lungs in instantaneous panic.

_Please, _please___don't… Oh, Wilson, oh, _God_, no…_

"You must be in a lot of pain by now," Wilson observed, without a trace of compassion. His hand tightened slightly, and House let out a thin, choked cry, trying in vain to pull away. Wilson's voice hardened as he added, "You need to know that you could always be in more."

House shook his head pleadingly, his face awash with shame when he felt tears spring to his eyes.

_No, please, no…_

"I'd like for you to be more comfortable than this, House… but it can't happen. Not yet." Wilson paused, his tone thoughtful and certain when he continued, "In order to keep you safe, I'm going to have to build you into the kind of person who can accept someone else's leadership and control – and that's not going to be easy for you."

House's entire body shook with relief as he felt Wilson's hand leave his leg, sensed it as Wilson rose to his feet again, drawing away from House as bit. An instant later, relief was replaced with blind, blazing agony as House felt the hard toe of Wilson's shoe dig into the tender flesh of his thigh. Wilson followed his slight motion as he tried to pull away, just applying more pressure, even as House let out an anguished, nearly silenced moan of pleading anguish.

Wilson's voice was deadly soft, terrifying, as he stated, "Before I can build you back up into the person you need to be – I'm going to have to break you down completely."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, not removing his foot from House's thigh as he went on. "I've moved you to a very remote location. No one could hear you if you _could _scream; and I'm going to make sure that you can't. No one knows you're here. No one knows _I'm_ here. There's no phone, and this address isn't associated with either of us. There is _no chance_ that anyone will find you here. I'm your entire world now, House. I decide when you eat or hurt or _move_ – and the sooner you get that through your head, the better off we'll both be."

As Wilson finally relented, easing the pressure on House's thigh and walking slowly away, House's shoulders shook with sobs, and he shook his head pleadingly, even as despair overwhelmed the last vestiges of hope in his mind. He couldn't speak, but he was crying out in his mind, desperate for Wilson to hear him.

_Wilson, please… please don't leave me like this… don't do this to me…_

****************************

_Come on, Wilson, answer your damn phone…_

Cuddy listened to the ringing on the other line through five rings, before it finally went through to Wilson's voicemail. She pushed the button to end the call with a frustrated sigh, resting her head against the back of her hand before lowering the phone to the desk, staring with troubled, unseeing eyes through the darkened window of her office.

She knew it was a long shot, but all her previous attempts to reach House had ended in failure. She had hoped that perhaps Wilson had heard from him, and might be able to tell her how to reach him. Because of the way Wilson had left, and then House had left after him, she thought it was fairly unlikely that they were still in any form of contact.

But she was running out of options.

She opened her file cabinet and pulled out Wilson's file, taking from it her copy of the letter of recommendation she had written him for his new job. She made a note of the address, then put the file away again and put on her coat.

Half an hour later, she was walking through the door of Wilson's new place of employment, hoping against hope that she could convince someone to give her his new address.

"Really, he left it with me when he left, but there must have been some kind of clerical error, and it's no longer on file at my hospital," she insisted to the wary reception nurse. "He wouldn't have given it to me if he had a problem with my having it."

"It's against policy, ma'am, I'm sorry," the nurse calmly stated, her expression making it clear that she was quite skeptical of Cuddy's explanation.

"I understand that." Cuddy gave the nurse a tight, controlled smile. "May I speak with your supervisor?"

Finally, after a lengthy conversation with the administrator on duty – in which Cuddy explained that there was an issue with one of Wilson's former patients who was having a medical crisis, and that she needed to speak with him about that patient right away, but was unable to reach him by phone – she managed to convince the woman to look up Wilson's employee file for her and find the address.

The woman frowned at the computer screen, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry. We only have a post office box on file for Dr. Wilson. There's no physical address on file."

Cuddy left the hospital and headed toward her house with more questions and fewer answers than when she had arrived there. The entire time Wilson had worked at PPTH, he had kept her informed as to his current address and contact information. It didn't make sense that he would not have done the same thing with his new employer.

She was surer than ever: something was terribly wrong.

With a weary sigh of reluctant acceptance, Cuddy took out her cell phone and dialed Wilson's number again.

**************************

Wilson closed the basement door behind him – then leaned against it, one hand over his eyes as he struggled to hold back the tears that shook him. He could not erase from his mind the image of House, laid out on the basement floor with only a thin military style mattress between himself and cold stone – his wrists and ankles locked into tight iron shackles bolted to the floor near the four corners of the mattress – gagged and blindfolded, totally helpless and in terrible pain.

_It has to be. It hurts, but it has to be. It's the only way he'll submit – the only way he'll ever realize that _I'm_ the one in control…_

Resolutely he made his way into the kitchen and set about making dinner – for one.

House had already gone a day and a half without food or Vicodin, and Wilson tried not to think about how desperate he had to be by now for both.

_But he_ needs _to be desperate. He needs to get to the point where he recognizes that I'm his only source of either of those things, so he'll submit. I've got to be as hard as possible for as long as necessary, so he knows how bad it can actually get for him, so it will finally get through to him that submission is the only option. It's breaking _me _to break him – but I have no choice. It's the only way this can work._

Wilson sat down with his lonely dinner in the living room, trying to focus on the positives instead of the disturbing knowledge of the miserable state in which his friend was suffering at that very moment.

_At least this place is so much better than the other house. Secluded and out of the way – and not officially linked to me or House. No one would ever have any reason to look for either of us here. We're totally safe._

His cell phone started ringing mid-bite, and Wilson leaned forward to pick it up, glancing disinterestedly at the screen once – _Lisa Cuddy_ – before setting it down again, letting it continue to ring until it went to voicemail.


	10. Chapter 10

"You're detoxing."

Wilson's matter-of-fact tone cut through the interminable clamor of House's anguished thoughts, drawing his attention with a sense of urgency. By this point he was so sick with agony that he could barely make sense of the words at all. His thoughts were hardly in words anymore, but rather sheer anguished sensation, brutal and overwhelming in its intensity.

With no means by which to measure it, and with the agony that made each moment seem to drag on for an eternity, time had ceased to have any meaning to him. His arms ached from being stretched over his head in the same position for so long, and his right leg felt as if it was on fire. It nearly drowned out the dull ache of hunger in his empty stomach, but the dry, scratching thirst that filled his mouth and throat were too strong to be ignored.

By this point – House was desperate.

"If you get sick, you could choke," Wilson continued, with the same calm, clinical tone he used every day at work. "So… I'd like to take the gag out, but… frankly, I'm not sure I can trust you."

Through his pain, House managed to recognize the importance of what Wilson was saying. If he could call for help, draw someone's attention – or even just _talk_ to Wilson, try to get him to understand – then maybe he would have a chance of getting out of this.

And he _had_ to get out of this.

The pain was unbearable by this point, making House unsure whether freedom or death was the preferable option. He nodded hurriedly, emphatically, trying to make it clear to Wilson that yes, he _could_ trust him.

Wilson made a skeptical clucking sound with his tongue, running an affectionate hand through House's sweat-dampened hair. "I don't know, House. I need to know that you won't scream – won't try anything at all. I don't even want you to _speak_ without permission, is that clear, House?"

The stern warning in Wilson's voice only intensified the nausea House was feeling, and he nodded again, a frustrated whimper leaving his throat. At this point, he was willing to beg and plead for Wilson to take the gag out – and the irony of that particular detail of his situation was for once completely lost on him.

"All right," Wilson sighed, resignation in his voice – as if he was already certain that House would fail his test of trust. "We'll try it. If you can't be obedient to my terms, though – you'll regret it, House. Do you understand?"

House felt as if he couldn't stop nodding, his shoulders shaking with relief as he felt Wilson's hands reaching to lift his head slightly, deft fingers working the strap behind his head and unfastening the gag. As Wilson drew the hated device away, House gingerly worked his aching jaw, gasping in several deep, desperate breaths of cool air that seemed to ease the pain-induced nausea a little. He swallowed, wincing at the sharp tearing pain in his dry throat, but grateful for what little moisture he could manage to get into his mouth.

"I'm not going to be able to just leave you like this for more than a little while, though," Wilson informed him, his tone careless and unconcerned. "I _do_ have to work later today, and I don't trust you enough to leave you completely free to talk or scream or whatever while I'm gone…"

The idea of having to accept the gag again was terrifying. House felt the last vestiges of his pride shattering into pieces, and he desperately shook his head, hoarse, pleading words escaping his lips before he could remember Wilson's orders.

"Wilson, no, please… I won't say anything, I won't try anything, I swear, just please, _please_ don't…"

A breathtaking slap across his face silenced House's trembling words, and he cringed as Wilson grabbed his hair and jerked his head up off the mattress. House flinched when he felt Wilson's breath on his face and heard the furious menace in his voice.

"I _just warned_ you, House, not ten seconds ago! How can I trust you when you can't go a single minute without lying to me or trying to trick me?"

His heart sinking with despair, House tried to shake his head against Wilson's grasp, stammering out mindless, helpless apologies and explanations.

"No, Wilson, please, I wasn't t-trying to trick you, please, I just want to talk to you…"

"I was really hoping this wouldn't be necessary, House."

Wilson's tone was terse and impatient, and House flinched when he felt Wilson's hands near his throat. A moment later, he felt a frightening pressure across his throat, cutting off his oxygen almost completely. He gasped for breath that came only with great difficulty, seized with panic.

"P-please… can't… breathe…"

"House…" Wilson's words were slow and filled with patronizing patience. "… you're talking to me. You know what that means?"

House didn't even try to respond, too focused on struggling to draw air into his starved lungs. Angry at being ignored, Wilson slapped his cheek lightly a couple of times in a gesture designed both to get his attention, and also as a threat.

"Pay attention, House. _What does that mean_?"

House tried to focus through his panic, more frightened of what Wilson might do to him if he made him angry than of the constricting band around his throat. After a moment, the answer came to him, and he let out a shaky breath with some semblance of relief as he gave his halting response.

"If I can… talk… I… can breathe…"

"That's right." Wilson's voice was soft and soothing, yet somehow menacing at the same time. "But I'm pretty sure the strap I just put around your neck will keep you from getting enough air in at once to scream. And… I don't really want you to talk, either. Not unless I ask you a question. Is that clear?"

House nodded listlessly, his labored breathing evening out as he began to bring his panic under control.

"Good. How's your pain level? Give me a number."

"Twenty-five."

"That's… about what I figured. Are you hungry?"

The very thought of food was nauseating, despite his ravenous state of hunger, and House shook his head weakly, swallowing hard against the bile that rose in his throat. "No… hurts… too much…"

"Thirsty? Would you like some water?"

Cool water seemed like just the thing to soothe not only the burning ache in his throat, but also his raging stomach. House nodded eagerly, desperately.

"Yes… _please_…"

"I don't know, House. You certainly haven't earned it."

House swallowed with difficulty, struggling to draw in enough breath to speak. "I… I'm sorry… I-I'll do what you say… please, Wilson…"

"Save it, House. I heard you the first time you said that – and look how _that_ turned out."

House bit his lower lip, cringing slightly at the hard note of resentful anger in Wilson's voice, the reminder of his failed escape attempt that had brought him here.

"I-I'm sorry, Wilson… I won't do that a-again… I swear, _please_…"

"Shut up, House."

The order was given without anger, and with quiet authority that sent a shiver down House's spine; he immediately fell silent.

"Now, I'm going to give you some water. Before you get any food… or Vicodin, for that matter… you're going to have to earn it. Open your mouth again without permission and it'll be twice as long."

House bit back the instinctive protest that had risen to his lips, remaining silent with an effort.

"If I take the strap off your throat… can you keep your mouth shut?"

House nodded pleadingly, not daring to make a sound.

"Good."

House held perfectly still, doing his best to show Wilson that he was cooperating, though instinct made him want to jerk away from Wilson's touch. Wilson unfastened the strap, and House drew in a deep, trembling breath of cool air, nearly hyperventilating in his desperate desire for the oxygen of which he had been deprived.

"I've got a few things to do around the house, and when I'm finished, I'll bring you some water," Wilson continued. "I'm going to leave the strap off while I'm gone, but this room is _not_ soundproofed. And if I hear a sound out of you, I'll make this suffering seem like a picnic in the park to you. Do you understand me?"

House's stomach lurched in fear at the deadly calm in Wilson's matter-of-fact threat, and for a moment he was certain he was going to throw up right then. He nodded again, choking back a sob when he felt Wilson's hand on his arm, unusually gentle and reassuring.

"Good. I'm going to let you earn back my trust, House – a little at a time."

With those words, Wilson's hand was gone, and House felt a rush of hot shame and self-directed anger at the bereft sense of loss that came with Wilson's absence.

_Please… please don't leave me here alone…_

******************************

It was nearly four hours before Wilson returned – not that House had any way of knowing that.

The time passed until he began to wonder if Wilson had been telling the truth, if he intended to come back at all. Despair began to sink in as his pain gradually intensified. Unlimited access to cool air only helped so much; and at a certain point, the dank cold of the room began to work against him. His muscles clenched and trembled in an attempt to warm his body, and thus caused his damaged thigh to hurt worse than ever.

He tried to stay quiet and still, unwilling to draw Wilson's anger again, but eventually it was just too much. Before long, a low, moan of agony escaped his throat… and soon become an almost consistent – if remarkably soft – sound of pleading anguish. The pain and nausea eventually overwhelmed him, and House barely had time to turn his head to the side before he vomited all over the side of the mattress to which he was chained. A moment later, the acrid scent of urine filled the air, and House felt a fresh wave of shame come over him at the realization that, during his stomach's revolt, he had also lost control of his bladder. He had been holding it for so long already that the momentary lapse had been more than his stressed system could take.

When Wilson finally returned, he let out an appalled sound at the stench that met his nostrils, stalking across the room to stand over House's helpless, trembling form.

"God, House, that's disgusting," he snapped, his tone hard and pitiless as he crouched beside House and pulled his head up with a careless, painful hand in his hair. Then, almost as an afterthought, he shook him and snarled, "And I told you to _shut up_! When are you going to learn a little self-control?"

House tried in vain to bite back his quiet, keening moans of pain, terrified of making Wilson angry with him again. A litany of desperate pleas and apologies filled his mind, though he dared not speak them aloud. All he could do was to weakly shake his head in a wordless plea for mercy – and even that humble gesture was impeded by Wilson's grip on his hair.

Wilson stared down at him in irritation for a long moment, before relenting with a heavy sigh.

House _did_ look rather pitiful – and he _had_ stayed quiet for a long time.

Wilson released House's hair, allowing his head to fall back onto the mattress, then ran a gentle hand across his cheek, ignoring House's instinctive flinch at the contact.

"I'll be right back."

"No," House whimpered, having no way of knowing how long Wilson might be gone, and unable to hold back his distress at the idea of being alone again.

Feeling generous, Wilson decided to let it pass.

This time, Wilson was only gone for a few minutes. When he returned, he gently washed House's face with a warm, wet cloth. He spoke to House softly as he cleaned up the vomit and piss from the vinyl surface of the mattress and the floor around it. Once he was finished, he placed a firm, supportive hand at the back of House's head, tilting a glass of water to his lips and allowing him to take a few slow sips.

"You actually did pretty well, House," he admitted, his tone still cool and detached, but no longer angry. "You stayed quiet for a long time… and I think you've earned a small reward."

House tried not to get his hopes up, but his heart raced at the thought of possibly being allowed Vicodin after all this time spent in unrelieved agony. He swallowed hard, automatically salivating at the thought of its familiar bitter taste, and the sweet relief that would follow it.

"I made you a sandwich while I was out there," Wilson informed him. "You need to try to eat a little. You haven't eaten in a couple of days…"

House's stomach did an uncomfortable flip at the thought of food, and he swallowed hard to keep from vomiting again. "I… I can't," he rasped out, his voice timid and trembling. "I'm… too sick… hurts too much…"

Wilson was silent for a long moment, and House braced himself with dread for the inevitable explosion.

It was not long in coming.

"House… is there _anything_ you know how to do right besides _complain_?"

Wilson's words started off slow and clipped, rising to a crescendo of shouted rage. House heard a tremendous crash of shattering glass as Wilson hurled the plate, sandwich and all, against the wall, and flinched violently, his trembling intensifying.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he whispered automatically.

Wilson would not be so easily appeased. He slapped House across the face, hard, before rising to his feet. House could hear his quick, frenetic pacing as he released his rage in a bitter diatribe of berating accusations.

"That is _exactly_ your problem, House! _Exactly_ your problem! You always think you know what's best, don't you? But you _don't_! What you need to learn to do is to just _accept_ that I'm doing what is best for you and quit with your stupid, argumentative _whining_! I am _trying_ to _help_ you!"

"I'm sorry," House pleaded, the words nearly a sob of desperation. "Wilson, please, I'm sorry…"

"Too late."

Wilson crouched beside him, and House tensed as his head was raised again. He heard the clink of glass against stone as Wilson placed the glass of water on the floor beside the mattress and reached to take something from his pocket.

"I've got two pills here, House. One is Vicodin, and one is nausea medication to keep you from throwing up all over yourself again." He paused a moment, and there was a nasty, malicious note to his voice as he softly concluded, "Guess which one you're going to get now."

"Wilson, _please_…"

"Take it. Drink."

House dared not resist as Wilson placed the pill between his lips and held the water to his mouth again. He let House drink as much of the water as he wanted, then replaced the gag in his mouth. House struggled weakly when he realized what Wilson was doing, but a sharp, warning jerk on the straps of the gag stilled him, his only motion the shaking of his shoulders that accompanied his despairing sobs, as Wilson got up and walked away from him again.


	11. Chapter 11

Not surprisingly, despite his exhaustion, House found it nearly impossible to sleep. He drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the night, kept awake more often than not by the agony that radiated from his right thigh throughout his entire body. He was shaking, nearly feverish with pain and cold, his jaw aching from the painful stretch of the gag in his mouth.

His every sense was strangely heightened by the fact that he couldn't see his surroundings. When Wilson came in the next morning, he was instantly roused from his half-asleep state by the soft sounds of his approaching footsteps. Immediately, House felt overwhelmed with shame as he remembered that he had once again pissed himself, unable to maintain control through the all-consuming agony that used up his every last ounce of strength.

_Wilson's gonna be mad… he's gonna be so furious with me… oh, God, please don't… please, no…_

At least the anti-nausea medication Wilson had given him had kept him from throwing up anymore. House tensed, struggling to silence the soft moan of pain that escaped his lips as Wilson crouched beside him. He flinched when Wilson grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head up, leaning in very close to speak in a low, calmly threatening voice.

"If you scream… if you make a sound, House… the gag's not coming off for a week, do you understand me?"

House nodded as best he could, willing to do whatever Wilson wanted if he'd just give him some small measure of relief. Wilson released his hair and carefully unfastened the gag, setting it aside. House winced at the pain as he closed his mouth, swallowing slowly – but he didn't make a sound.

"Good… good boy…"

House felt a rush of shame at the unwelcome emotions that rose to the surface at Wilson's unusually gentle, affectionate tone. Hot tears sprang to his eyes, and he was almost grateful for the blindfold that concealed them from Wilson's scrutiny. It had just been so long since anyone had shown him any kindness at all; and in spite of everything, coming from Wilson, that kindness meant more than it would have from anyone else.

That _might _have had something to do with the fact that Wilson was the one person with power over his entire existence at the moment – but House was too emotionally and physically on edge to care.

Every thought faded away into mindless fear, as House suddenly felt Wilson's hand resting over his exposed scar. He froze, not daring to move, terrified of doing something to cause Wilson to carry out the implicit threat of that gesture. Wilson's voice was chillingly patient and gentle, as if he was speaking to very slow child, as his free hand slid under House's shoulder.

"I'm going to help you sit up now. If you fight me, or try anything stupid, House…" Wilson's hand tightened slightly on House's thigh, and he couldn't hold back a panicked whimper of pain and fear. "… but you won't, will you? You're going to be perfectly still and obedient and cooperative. Aren't you?"

House nodded desperately, not daring to utter the pleading words that filled his mind. His shoulders shook with relief when Wilson released his thigh and moved to the head of the mattress to carefully unlock the iron shackles that bound House's wrists above his head. The cool air on his abraded skin was a blessed relief after days spent locked into the painfully tight cuffs, unable to so much as move; but House was careful to keep perfectly still, unwilling to do anything to make Wilson change his mind about this small – and probably brief – mercy.

"Okay… come on, let's sit up…"

House made himself as pliant and cooperative as possible as Wilson braced him with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm to help him sit up. House immediately felt light-headed and nauseous, and nearly collapsed, but Wilson gently supported him, holding him up, one hand running soothingly up and down his back. House's arms ached with the tension of holding the same position for so long, and he wasn't sure they'd work if he tried to use them at the moment, but it felt good to have them free, even just for a little while.

"It's okay," Wilson murmured in a hushed, intimately affectionate tone. "I've got you… you're all right…"

House felt utterly confused and off-balance, torn between his anger and humiliation at the way Wilson had treated him for the past few days, and a completely irrational gratitude for the gentleness and concern he was currently being shown. Just the simple affection of Wilson's touch on his back was enough to bring him to tears.

_You're losing it… you know you can't do this… can't let him play you like this… but he is, and you're losing it… and if you lose it now, you lose_ everything…

"You need to eat something, House." Wilson's stern voice broke through his racing, feverish thoughts, and House struggled to focus. "I know you don't feel like it, but you have to keep your strength up. I've got some water and food for you here… and I want you to eat it and drink it all. If you cooperate and do exactly as I tell you… I might have time to give you a bath before I go to work. Okay?"

House felt his face flush with embarrassment at the reminder of the current soiled state of his body and the bed on which he lay. He nodded slowly, his head submissively bowed in a silent indicator that he would be obedient. Although he felt too nauseous to eat, he knew better than to defy Wilson again on the same issue which had resulted in such violence the night before.

And besides, he had to admit that Wilson was right. If he didn't eat, he'd just continue to get weaker and more helpless – and lose any chance he might have of getting out of this nightmare.

He tried his best to ignore the lurching protest of his stomach as Wilson fed him from a steaming bowl of vegetable soup, giving him bites of bread in between, and a large glass of ice cold water. Despite the dangerously queasy feeling in his stomach, House had to admit that the food tasted good after days without eating. When it was gone, Wilson placed the dishes aside and resumed gently rubbing House's back.

"Good. That's really good, House. I'm proud of you. We're making progress, here."

House was pathetically pleased by Wilson's praise and affection. He nodded slowly, still not venturing to speak.

"Is that better? Would you like a little bit more? I could get you some more."

House didn't want anymore to eat, but now that the pangs of hunger in his stomach had eased, he was only more aware of the pain in his leg than ever. Wilson was being so gentle and concerned, and had actually asked him if he wanted more to eat, so maybe he would be a little more tolerant if House dared to ask him.

_No… no, it'll just make him angry…_

House shook his head meekly, blinded eyes downcast in submission.

"You feel a little better, then?" Wilson pressed. "Not so sick?"

House bit his lip, unsure whether or not he was supposed to answer.

"Go ahead," Wilson prompted him gently. "What is it? Go ahead and say what you wanna say."

House hesitated, caught between his fear of angering Wilson again, and his desperation for relief from his pain. Wilson was being so calm and reassuring; surely he wouldn't freak out just because House mentioned needing his medication. He kept his tone soft and subdued, his words halting and uncertain as he tried to form his request in the most inoffensive way possible – and he wasn't exactly all that experienced with actually _trying_ to be _in_offensive.

"Wilson… I-I'm sorry… if I'm… not supposed to… to ask, but… but my leg… it h-hurts _so much_, Wilson… I… I need…"

He bit off the rest of his pathetic plea as Wilson grabbed his hair again, causing further pain to his already abused scalp and jerking his head back until he thought his neck might snap. House could feel the heat of Wilson's breath on his face, could almost feel the taut, cold smile on Wilson's lips before he spoke in a quiet, dangerously controlled voice.

"You still think _you're_ the one who knows what you _need_, House?"

"N-no, I'm sorry, no…" House stammered over the words, desperate to correct his mistake. "Please, no…"

"_I_ decide what you need, House, and _I'll_ decide when you _deserve_ to get pain relief! Do you understand?"

House nodded hurriedly, biting back further protests that he knew would only further enrage his maddened captor.

It didn't seem to help.

Wilson yanked him further forward on the mattress, and suddenly House felt Wilson's other hand closing around his thigh again. He instinctively jerked away, a strangled sound of panic escaping his throat as Wilson's fingers tightened painfully.

"You think your leg hurts _now_, House?" Wilson's voice was a menacing hiss in his ear. "You think you can't stand it? Trust me when I say it can get a hell of a lot worse!"

"Please, I'm sorry, please don't," House begged him, nearly beside himself with fear and pain. "I'm so sorry, Wilson…"

Wilson eased his grip on House's leg, but did not remove his hand completely, his voice softening as he spoke in a slow, measured tone. "When I know that you understand that _I_ am the one in control here, and _I_ make the decisions… _then _you might get your damn Vicodin, only if I decide to give it to you. So, it stands to reason that you'd better be as cooperative and quiet and _not annoying_ as possible…" He bit off the last words in clear irritation, his hand tightening painfully in House's hair. "Is that clear, House?"

"Y-yes, I'm sorry, please, I'm sorry, Wilson…"

Very subdued, fighting back sobs, House nodded desperately, whispering a litany of apologies under his breath. He didn't dare mention the Vicodin again, despite the fact that his abused leg felt as if it was on fire. He was trembling with pain and terror, but did his best to hold still within Wilson's grasp.

"Good," Wilson murmured, a warning edge to his voice, though he seemed much calmer now.

He released his grip on his captive, allowing him to lie back down on the mattress as he set about cleaning up the mess House had made during the night, shifting his legs off the mattress long enough to wipe them clean, and wipe down the mattress as well. House was pitifully grateful for the fact that he left the gag off while he worked, and made no further verbal or physical threats. When Wilson was finished, he put the shackles back in place on House's wrists and ankles – and House's heart sank at the prospect of being left alone again for interminable hours.

Even Wilson's abuse, terrifying as it was, was preferable to the endless torment of utter darkness and loneliness in this cold, empty basement.

**************************

Wilson struggled to remain calm, keeping his steps even as he closed and locked the basement door, then made his way to his bedroom on the opposite side of the house. He calmly closed his door, then sat down on the side of the bed, his head in his hands, trying to control the violent trembling of his frustration.

After a few moments, however, he lost control, rising back to his feet and angrily sweeping the items arranged on his nightstand off and to the floor. He leaned down to pick up the nearest one to his hand – which happened to be his alarm clock – and hurled it against the wall with a shouted curse of rage.

"Damn it, why did House have to mention the damn pills?" he muttered to himself as he paced the room. "I was all set to give them back to him, but no, he had to go and blow it. If I give them to him when he asks for them then he'll think it's _because_ he asked for them and he'll think that he can control me, and he has to know that _I'm_ the one in charge here and _I'll_ make the decisions from now on. Now I've got to wait at least another day, and he's in so much pain, and God, I can't _take_ this!"

With a wordless snarl he knocked the lamp off his dresser, feeling a perverse sense of satisfaction when it shattered against the wood floor. Feeling suddenly weary, his every limb too heavy to hold up, he sat back down on the side of his bed, burying his head in his arms.

He didn't want to make House suffer anymore – but he knew he had no choice.

_If he can make it through the next twenty-four hours without trying anything, or mentioning the pills, or just generally_ pissing me off… then _I'll give him some Vicodin. But until then… he's got to learn to show some respect. I have to know that he's not going to try to get away the first time I turn my back. I have to know that he's going to let me protect him._


	12. Chapter 12

When Wilson entered the basement the following day, House forced himself to be silent. In spite of the state of blind, uncontrolled agony he had reached, he was too terrified of angering his captor to make a sound – not to mention the fact that he had nearly lost his voice from the pitifully muffled moans of pain that had filled the long hours since Wilson had last checked on him.

Despite his silence, Wilson issued a quietly threatening command. "Keep quiet, House. Open your mouth and you'll regret it."

House shook his head emphatically to indicate his intention to obey, then tried not to flinch when he felt Wilson's hands on his face, reminding himself that Wilson was only unfastening the gag. He swallowed, though his throat was so dry and raw that the motion was more of a fresh agony than any kind of relief. When Wilson unfastened his wrist restraints and placed a hand under his back to lift him up, House did his best to cooperate, allowing his body to be manipulated into the seat position Wilson wanted. Wilson's hands left his body, and House became aware of a scent that would have been enticing if not for his pain-induced nausea.

"Time to eat. Open up."

House's trembling intensified at the tension in Wilson's voice, in spite of his attempt at utter submission. A cold feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and a sense of despairing defeat. Wilson already seemed angry, and he hadn't done anything to cause it. He immediately opened his mouth as he was ordered, desperately obedient.

Wilson put a bite of some kind of roast in his mouth, and House had to admit that it tasted delicious. He relaxed a little bit as Wilson fed him his meal, allowing himself to enjoy the flavors and textures that were the only pleasurable thing that existed in the nightmare state to which his life had been reduced.

"Good, House," Wilson murmured, and though the tension was still there, House was relieved to hear the grudging approval in his tone. "Now have some water… here we go…"

House tried to cooperate, but was trembling so hard that a little of the water spilled in a cold, trickling stream down his bare chest. He shivered, biting back the pathetic pleas and apologies that instantly rose to his lips, flinching away as Wilson set the glass down and placed a surprisingly gentle hand on the back of his neck.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Wilson sighed, and House could almost visualize the familiar gesture that slightly muffled his words, as Wilson ran a hand down over his own face in weary frustration. "House… relax, okay? I'm not pissed off or anything; I'm just… it's just… been a _really _stressful day. So just… stop acting so scared of me, or you're _going _to piss me off. Okay?"

House nodded hesitantly, struggling to get his trembling under control, though it was clearly a losing battle. His physical reaction of panic was instinctive and subconscious, and it seemed that the more he tried to stop it, the worse it became.

"How's your pain today?"

The question made House's stomach lurch, and he flinched slightly, unsure how or even whether or not to answer. If he said anything to make Wilson think that he was trying to get Vicodin, it would only result in more pain and denial – and Wilson seemed particularly inclined to think the worst at the moment.

"_Answer me_."

The soft warning in Wilson's voice prompted House to respond in spite of his fear. "B-bad… ten. It's… it's a ten today…"

He didn't dare say anymore, and Wilson was silent for so long that House's heart sank, his chest constricting with terror.

_I blew it, I don't know what I said wrong but he's angry and he's gonna hurt me now and not give me any Vicodin and…_

His thoughts broke off in a mindless wave of panic when he felt Wilson's hand grip the back of his neck none too gently, his other hand pressing against House's chest. House sensed Wilson leaning in close to him, and froze, not daring to move. His breath came in ragged, halting gasps as Wilson spoke softly next to his face, every word measured and precise.

"You… belong… to _me_."

House nodded hurriedly, desperately, wanting only to appease Wilson before something bad happened. Wilson's hand tightened on House's neck as he snapped.

"_Say it_."

"I-I belong to you," House whispered, his head lowered with shame.

"You will obey me," Wilson continued. "Anything I tell you to do – you're going to do it. Right?"

House nodded again, swallowing back a sob before hesitantly offering a verbal affirmation of Wilson's words. "I'll… o-obey you, Wilson. Anything you say." A desperate plea he barely dared to voice, House added in an almost inaudible whisper, "_Please_…"

Wilson was quiet for a long moment, and House waited in silent, shaking terror for the punishment for whatever offense he'd committed this time – but it didn't come. Wilson's hand softened to a caress, and his voice gentled, losing its angry, warning edge.

"We'll see," he murmured soothingly. "I'd like to believe you. I hope I can – but we'll have to take it slow, House. You've left me no choice in that."

House nodded slowly, readily accepting Wilson's explanation.

_Just don't get mad again… just don't hurt me anymore…_

"I get to stay home today. No work. So we'll just… hang out a little while, down here… and we'll consider it… a test," Wilson continued. "And if you pass… you'll be rewarded. Okay?"

House nodded again, his head submissively bowed as Wilson moved away from him. House couldn't help his instinctive jerk when he felt Wilson's hand on his right leg, even though it was far from his damaged thigh.

"Easy," Wilson murmured, responding to the involuntary motion by gently stroking House's bare calf, instead of striking out in anger. "Not gonna hurt you. I'm just taking these cuffs off. Try to kick me, though…" His hand tightened warningly. "… and I _will _hurt you. Got it?"

House nodded once more, eager to assure Wilson of his cooperation.

Once his ankles were free, House still didn't dare to move. He knew he was in too much pain, his muscles too weak from hunger and sickness and lack of use, to try anything, anyway; and a simple movement to ease the tension in his strained legs was not worth the risk of Wilson's wrath. He made himself stay still as Wilson moved around behind him, and his hands were drawn behind his back and fastened into a pair of metal cuffs.

"Trust has to be earned, House," Wilson reminded him softly, stroking a gentle hand down his back before gripping his arm and attempting to pull him to his feet. "Come on, now… I'm gonna need a little help here."

House struggled to get his legs under him, unsure of his position or his footing, but it was no use. His numbed, aching limbs refused to cooperate. As Wilson swore under his breath, House flinched, certain that he would be punished for his failure to obey – but Wilson just allowed him to sink back down onto the mattress in a semi-seated position, his legs folded partly under him, and let out a sigh of resignation.

"It's all right," he reassured House. "I know you're trying. It's okay…"

He stayed with House for a while, talking almost as if everything was normal between them. He told House about his new job, and the people he worked with, about several humorous or interesting patients or staff members he'd run into over the past few weeks.

All of it was lost on House, who was doing his best to pay attention, but terribly distracted by his own suffering. At first the pressure on his legs actually felt a little bit good, providing a relief to the painfully stretched position in which they'd been for days. After a while, however, he wanted to stretch them out again a little, but was too afraid to move without asking… and asking, speaking at all without permission, was completely out of the question.

After a while, Wilson rose to his feet, and House tensed, uncertain what to expect. When he felt Wilson's hands on his shoulders, maneuvering him up onto his knees, he allowed himself to be moved, struggling to stay in the kneeling position despite his discomfort. Wilson grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, and House winced at the unprovoked violence. Wilson's voice was cold and menacing again.

"You will stay like this – you will not move – until I come back. Even while I'm gone, I don't want you to move an inch. Do you understand me?"

House swallowed hard, unsure how he was going to be able to obey this command – only knowing that he somehow _had _to. He nodded as best he could against Wilson's grip on his hair, biting his lower lip to hold back the panicked sounds that rose in his throat. Wilson released him abruptly, and House heard his footsteps on the floor, then on the stairs – then heard the sound of the basement door as it opened and then closed again.

Wilson was gone for a very long time.

At least, it _felt _like a long time to House as he struggled to maintain the position Wilson had demanded of him. His knees ached, his thigh throbbed, and his nausea intensified as his pain increased. His breath was shallow and rapid, and his body shook violently, but he kept quiet as the endless minutes ticked on and on, with no sign of Wilson's return.

What he couldn't know was that in reality, it only lasted thirty minutes – and Wilson was sitting silently at the top of the stairs, watching him the entire time.

When the door opened and closed again, House flinched slightly but stayed in position, his body taut with pain and fear as Wilson approached him. He kept as still as possible as Wilson crouched beside him, running a slow, possessive hand over his bare hip. House fought the overwhelming sense of revulsion that rose within him, fought the impulse to jerk away from the intimately familiar touch.

"Open your mouth."

House hesitated, unsure of what Wilson intended. He'd already eaten just a couple of hours earlier. Was this some new kind of torment – some sadistic, mad punishment Wilson had devised in response to his weak attempt at obedience?

It didn't matter. There was no choice.

House opened his mouth, waiting for Wilson to do what he would.

Wilson placed something on his tongue – and the familiar, beloved bitter taste of Vicodin filled his mouth. House's trembling intensified with his relief, and it was all he could do not to break down right then. Wilson's hand rested at the back of his neck, and House felt cool, smooth glass against his lips.

"Here, drink this."

Wilson commanded, and House gratefully drained the glass of water, washing the pill down his ragged throat. An instant later Wilson's hand fisted in his hair again, roughly yanking his head back, and Wilson snapped at him in warning.

"You should be grateful. You don't deserve this. What should you say to me, House?"

"Th-thank you," House whispered hoarsely, subdued and too pitifully grateful for this much-needed mercy to care about the humiliation of being made to thank Wilson for giving him what should have been his already.

"Good." Wilson's voice was stern but softer. "You will always thank me for anything I give you. Your food, water, returned privileges – and especially your Vicodin. Understand?"

"Y-yes," House whispered, nodding slightly. "Yes… th-thank you."

"Open up."

House obeyed, elated when Wilson gave him a second Vicodin. As grateful as he was for the first, House doubted how effective it would be when faced with the unbearable level of pain he had reached over the past few days. House swallowed the pill with a second drink of water, his breath beginning to grow steadier and his trembling decreasing just with the knowledge that relief was soon coming.

"Thank you," he breathed out, his head bowed almost reverently. "Thank you, Wilson."

"You're welcome." Wilson's voice was low and aching with emotion as he gently ran his fingers through House's hair. "I don't want you to suffer, House. I don't want to hurt you. If I hurt you, it's only because you make me." He paused, allowing that to sink in before adding, "As you behave well, like you've done today, you'll gradually have privileges returned to you – and _everything's_ a privilege, House. You are mine to care for, and I will make the decisions as to what you need – what you deserve. Are we clear?"

House nodded quickly. "Yes," he whispered, utterly cooperative.

He would do whatever Wilson asked of him in order to prevent the suffering he'd endured the past few days. A part of his mind – a much smaller part than before – still focused on escape whispered quietly within him.

_It's the only way… no matter how long it takes… he has to trust you or he'll never let you be free enough to get away…_

House's heart sank, but he did not resist as Wilson maneuvered him back down onto the mattress, into the position in which he'd spent the last few days. He tied his wrists down again, and his left leg, but paused over the right one, his hand resting casually on House's lower thigh, unsettlingly close to the scar.

"If I leave this leg untied… I'm not going to regret it, am I, House?"

"No," House whispered urgently, shaking his head. "No, I… I won't try anything. Please, Wilson…"

"Shut up. All I needed was a yes or no."

House bit his lip, immediately going silent in response to Wilson's casually commanding tone. Wilson patted his leg with a heavy sigh, before rising to his feet without fastening the restraint.

"Go ahead and move it all you need to, to get comfortable," he said quietly. "I'll be back in a few hours. I have some things I have to do."

"Thank you," House offered hurriedly as he heard Wilson's footsteps moving toward the door.

The last thing he wanted was to get Wilson to change his mind by breaking the newly introduced rule. Wilson's footsteps paused, and House could hear that his voice was trembling when he answered in a voice barely over a whisper.

"You're welcome."

Without another word, Wilson headed for the door, closing it behind him. House lay there in what felt like bliss after so long in agony, as the Vicodin started to kick in, and he could finally think about something besides his own pain. He knew now – the only way out of this was obedience. Wilson's trust would not be regained through some short-lived, half-assed attempt at deception. He would have to slowly, gradually regain his rights, his freedoms, and then wait for a chance when he knew he could not fail to escape.


	13. Chapter 13

That night passed much more easily than the previous nights House had spent in the basement of Wilson's new house. Wilson gave him another Vicodin that night before going to bed. While it was barely enough to take the edge off the extreme agony he'd been enduring, it was enough to allow House to sleep through the night.

He was barely beginning to wake up the following morning when he heard Wilson's footsteps on the basement floor. Immediately alert, House jerked against his bonds, instinct momentarily overpowering the knowledge that complete compliance was the best course of action at this point.

He fought to stay still when he felt Wilson's hand on his shoulder, terrified of angering Wilson with his resistance, however slight. When he felt the vaguely familiar sensation of a needle pressing through the skin of his bound arm, however, House couldn't help but try to pull away, his frightened protest muffled by the gag.

"Shhh," Wilson soothed him, his voice revealing no trace of anger, only patience and understanding. "It's okay, it's not gonna hurt you…"

Unfortunately, House knew all too well how swiftly Wilson's mood could shift from sympathy to rage. Within moments, the decision to remain still and compliant or to resist was taken from him, as whatever drug Wilson had injected him with began to flow through his bloodstream, making his head feel heavy and fuzzy. He felt himself relaxing, despite the panic that filled his thoughts – and then even those panicked thoughts were drifting away.

As he felt the gag removed from his mouth, House forgot Wilson's earlier orders, mumbling in a voice that was slow and slurred. "Wh-what… what did you…"

"It's just a very low dose of a very mild sedative, House, nothing to worry about. You'll be fine. I just need you calm and cooperative for the next hour or so," Wilson explained. "It's been days since you've bathed, but surely you understand that I can't allow you to bathe by yourself for a while. Not after what you tried the last time."

A part of House's mind was aware that he should have found the situation humiliating – and probably would once the drugs wore off – but for the moment, his thoughts seemed cushioned by a pleasant haze. He couldn't have resisted if he'd tried – and he didn't particularly feel like trying – as Wilson unfastened the bonds at his wrists and left ankle and helped him to sit up.

Wilson was taking no chances, and cuffed House's hands behind his back again before dragging him to his feet with an effort. Wilson groaned under the weight of his friend as he stumbled toward the door, House's arm slung across his shoulders. Through the drugged fog that filled his mind, House felt a slight measure of satisfaction at Wilson's difficulty, a final coherent though slurring through his mind.

_Should have thought about this before you… kidnapped me… chained me up in your basement and… drugged me out of… control of my own body. Too bad. Sucks to be you, Wilson. _

The trip up the basement stairs seemed to take forever. House instinctively tried to find the steps with his feet, though he couldn't see them, and barely had any control over the direction in which he was moved. For a moment at the top of the stairs, he thought about counting the steps to the bathroom, in case he might need to remember the route later; but by the time that thought had fully formed in his mind, they had already reached their destination.

Wilson helped him to sit down against the wall, and House shivered at the sensation of cool tile against his bare legs and back. He heard the water begin to run, and knew that Wilson was filling the tub. Wilson added bath salts, and soon the pleasant, steamy scent of the water added to House's general feeling of well-being.

Finally, Wilson put his arms around House and helped him get to his feet, guiding him the few yards across the room and helping him to get into the tub. Once again, House knew that he _should_ be embarrassed as Wilson gently, thoroughly bathed his body. However, the gentle, nurturing touch after so long with only fear and violence felt so good that he found himself relaxing, allowing himself to enjoy it, despite the fact that the sedative was beginning to wear off.

The entire process took over an hour, due to House's nearly complete inability to help Wilson in moving and manipulating his body. However, as far as House was concerned, it was over all too soon, and Wilson was helping him out of the tub. He helped House to sit down on the floor again, where he'd spread out a large, soft towel, then cuffed House's hands to the piping behind the tub.

"I'll be right back. Be still and don't do anything," Wilson warned him, leaving the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

Wilson was gone for what seemed like a very long time to House, chained and shivering on the floor. The cold seemed to speed the fading of the sedative, and as House's mental faculties began to return to him, he realized that Wilson had probably used far too small a dosage, in fear that whatever he'd used might interact badly with the Vicodin already in House's system.

_At least he's still thinking about things like that. At least he's not _completely_ lost his mind._

That thought was grotesquely funny to House, and he found himself laughing almost manically as he leaned his head back, resting his neck against the cool porcelain behind him. He felt the edge of the tub's rim against his shoulders, and suddenly went still as an idea occurred to him.

He'd been without sight for days now, and was desperate to get some glimpse of his surroundings, his physical condition – _something_. He was pretty sure that he could bend down and use the rim of the tub to push the blindfold up off his eyes; but he knew better than to risk Wilson's wrath for such a small and short-lived advantage.

The bottom line was, seeing where he was would do him no good if he couldn't get his hands free to escape.

_But if I could just see… if I could just get some idea of where I'm at… and then push the blindfold back down before he comes back…_

It seemed a simple enough task, and the idea of actually seeing _anything_ after so long in the dark was almost too tantalizing to resist. He could get a quick look around the room and have things just as they'd been when Wilson left again in a matter of seconds. The idea of Wilson catching him, however, was utterly terrifying. And the fact that it was terrifying was extremely disturbing.

_He's getting to you. It's twenty freakin' seconds, moron. Quit freaking out over nothing and _do it_._

************************

Wilson really didn't mean to leave House alone for so long. He went to the cupboard to get a couple of towels, but got distracted when his cell phone rang. He went to the living room and picked it up from the coffee table, frowning in frustration when he saw who was calling.

It was Cuddy.

_Again_.

She had called him a couple of dozen times over the past three days, and he had yet to answer a single one of her calls. That in itself was suspicious, he knew – but it could still be explained away. He could tell her that he'd been out of town and left his cell phone, or been in a place where he couldn't get service. There were several plausible excuses that wouldn't arouse her suspicions.

Simply refusing to take her calls for an indefinite amount of time would _definitely_ draw her suspicion.

_If she isn't suspicious already… and judging by the number of calls she's been making, that's a definite possibility. Or she could just be assuming that if anyone knows where House is, it'd be me… and she wouldn't be wrong. No, it's probably best to just answer…_

He sat down on the sofa, took a deep breath and tried to steady himself before flipping his phone open. He kept his voice calm and even, trying for a tone of friendly, pleased surprise.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Wilson?" She sounded relieved and incredulous, as if she could hardly believe that he had actually answered. "Where have you _been_? Why the hell haven't you been answering your cell phone?"

Wilson put a trace of confusion into his voice, doing his best to sound concerned. "I've been out of town. I figured a week in the mountains was just the thing to clear my head after… everything that's happened. I got back last night and got your messages, and I was going to call today, but…"

Cuddy let out a heavy sigh, and Wilson could almost picture the rueful, guilty expression on her face as she realized that she had just yelled at him without a valid reason. "I… I'm sorry, Wilson. It's just… I've been trying to reach you. I'm a little worried, because… well… House took off suddenly. Gave me his notice, and then… was just… gone. I've tried to reach him, but his phone's disconnected and he's moved out of his apartment…"

"My God," Wilson cut in with exaggerated drama. "House did something reckless and irresponsible without giving you fair warning that he was going to do it? That's one of the signs of the apocalypse, you know…"

"Wilson, I'm serious. I think he might be in some kind of trouble." Cuddy's voice was taut and trembling, sounding suspiciously close to tears.

Wilson bit back his own sigh, rolling his eyes and doing his best to infuse his voice with as much gentleness and sympathy as possible. He thought about the letter of resignation he'd left her in House's name, and frowned, trying to remember exactly what he'd written.

"Did he leave you any indication as to where he was going?" he asked thoughtfully. "Was he taking a job somewhere else, or…?"

"His letter said he was going home to spend some time with his parents."

"Well… I'm sure he needs a little bit of a sabbatical after the accident and all," Wilson reasoned. "That's not too much to ask. In fact, amazing and surreal as it is to be saying this at all… he left you notice… told you where he was going… and then apparently followed through with his plan. It sounds like for once in his life, he's actually behaving _reasonably_."

Cuddy was silent for a long moment, and Wilson mentally congratulated himself, knowing that she could not really argue with his logic. Finally she responded in a quiet, uncertain voice.

"Has he contacted you at all? His number's no good, and I don't want to bother his parents… but… if you've heard from him…"

Wilson latched onto the opportunity she had inadvertently provided him to throw her off track. "Actually, I did hear from him just after I left the hospital, but… before he left. He left a message on my cell phone and told me he was planning to go…"

"What was the number he was calling from?"

"Unknown," Wilson answered without hesitation, sounding suitably apologetic. "Sorry."

"But… he _did _tell you he was going to do this." Cuddy sounded both doubtful and reluctantly relieved.

"Yes." Wilson paused a moment before adding reassuringly, "I'm sure he's fine, Cuddy. He was just… wanting to get away for a while, you know? I'm sure he'll contact us again when he's ready."

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, a trace of disbelief in her voice when she replied, "And… you're _okay_ with that?"

"I haven't really got a choice," he pointed out. "And besides… I… well… I guess I can relate. This past week has been… just what I needed. I think maybe getting away from everything will be good for him."

They talked for a few minutes longer, and Wilson carefully gauged her tone while trying to maintain a façade of normalcy and friendship. When he was satisfied that he had alleviated her fears as much as possible, he politely excused himself and disconnected the call. He glanced at his watch, sucking in his breath through his teeth when he realized how much time had passed, with House alone and cold and wet and naked, chained up on the bathroom floor.

_Well, at least he can't go anywhere. A little cool air won't hurt him… and neither will a little humiliation, for that matter. He needs to get it through his head that I'm in charge, and having to wait a little while can only help that along…_

When he walked into the bathroom, at first everything appeared to be as he'd left it. A closer look, however, revealed that a small detail was off. Wilson stood in the doorway, trying to rein in his anger and frustration at being once again defied. When the sound of the door opening was followed by only silence, House began to tremble slightly, his body taut with apprehension, though he didn't dare to speak.

_But he'll be speaking in a second, all right. Oh, yes, he will._

"House…" Wilson's voice was low and dangerous, trembling with rage, as he slowly crossed the room to stand over his kneeling, helpless captive. "_What_ did you _do_?"


	14. Chapter 14

"What did you do?" Wilson demanded, his voice shaking with fury as his footsteps stopped directly in front of where House knelt on the bathroom floor.

House cringed, immediately knowing that Wilson must be able to tell that he'd moved the blindfold, despite his efforts to move it back to the same position it'd been in when Wilson left. It _felt_ the same. The problem was that he couldn't actually see it to know for sure if he'd succeeded in his efforts.

And apparently… he hadn't.

His brief bloom of courage wilted under the force of the menace in Wilson's voice, and House instinctively drew back against the bathtub behind him, his body trembling violently with dread of Wilson's wrath.

"Please," he whispered, hating himself for the pathetic tremor in his voice. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Wilson…"

It didn't occur to House to lie until after he'd already all but confessed – and that was possibly most disturbing of any of his own reactions so far.

At any rate, his desperate, timid plea was silenced by a sharp slap that rocked his head back against the tub, causing his vision to go dull and hazy for a few moments. House flinched, but couldn't see to pull away as Wilson grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked him forward with one hand, his other hand closing warningly around House's thigh.

The damaged limb spasmed under Wilson's hand in a subconscious reaction to the threat, and House shook his head as much as he could, choking back a terrified sob. "No," he gasped. "Wilson, no, please don't…"

Wilson ignored his pleas, leaning in close to inform him in a coldly triumphant voice, "I'll always know when you do things like this, House… things you're not supposed to do. And you _will_ be punished for it… every time…" His voice rose, his hand tightening in House's hair, as he concluded, "… so the smartest thing you can do... is _stop_ acting like a _freaking moron_ and _do as you're told_!"

"I'm sorry," House whispered almost frantically. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't…"

"Come on," Wilson snapped, roughly unlocking the cuffs from the bathroom pipe, fastening them again behind House's back and jerking him to his feet. "We're going back downstairs. I should just leave you there to rot, you ungrateful idiot. You don't deserve anything more than that…"

House's stomach lurched with dread at those words. As Wilson dragged him roughly through the halls and toward the basement door, he thought of the endless days he'd spent chained in the basement already, without any relief from his pain. He shook his head, a violent tremor coursing through his body as desperate, stammering words poured from his lips in a stream of helpless babbling.

"No, no, Wilson, please don't, I won't do it again, I'm sorry, I just… I n-need my… I need…"

"You need _what_, House?" Wilson snarled, shaking him hard at the top of the basement stairs. "Your stupid _Vicodin_? That's really all you care about, isn't it?"

He held onto one of House's arms, his free hand falling in a vicious slap across his face that nearly sent him tumbling down the stairs. The feeling of nothing but empty air behind him as his foot slipped from the stair made House's stomach lurch with instinctive panic, but Wilson caught his other arm, not allowing him to fall.

"_I _decide what you need!" Wilson repeated, his voice seething with furious resentment. "I decide when you need to eat, drink, sleep… whether you need your freakin' _Vicodin_…" His voice was cold with disgust, and he lowered it with menace as he concluded, "… whether you need a quick shove right now to remind you how bad your pain levels can actually be… you think that might help, House?"

House shook his head, nearly beside himself with fear, his shoulders quaking with sobs. "No," he pleaded. "No, Wilson, please… no, I'm sorry…"

A rough hand in his hair made House wince with pain, but he didn't try to pull away as Wilson jerked his head back and snarled, "Shut up."

He dragged House down the stairs and shoved him forcefully to his knees on the cement beside the mattress. House bit back a cry of pain at the impact, doing his best to be quiet and not to resist, terrified of increasing Wilson's mad fury.

"Do _not… move_."

The tone of Wilson's order left no doubt as to the types of things that might happen to him if he disobeyed. House remained perfectly still on his knees, struggling to control the tremor of mingled cold and dread that coursed through his body, as Wilson's footsteps echoed on the stairs. A few moments later, Wilson returned, and House felt the coarse fabric of a warm towel rubbing against his cold, damp skin.

Wilson was not particularly gentle, but did not seem to be trying to hurt House as he maneuvered his body to dry him off, then tossed the towel aside. A forceful hand at the back of House's neck pressed his head forward until his brow brushed the concrete in a completely subservient position. House didn't fight, trembling as Wilson held him there and leaned in close, his voice barely over a menacing whisper.

"Don't you have something to say to me?"

House was confused and terrified, desperately struggling to find the right words. He had already apologized a dozen times, but he found himself stammering out anyway, "I-I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Wilson… please…"

"Not that," Wilson snapped impatiently. "I just gave you a privilege – one that you obviously didn't deserve, since the first thing you did immediately afterwards was to disobey me. Now what do you have to say, House?"

House felt sick at the thought of the words Wilson wanted, considering the brutality and degradation to which he'd just been subjected, but he knew that he had no choice. His voice was a hoarse, subdued whisper as he choked out the answer Wilson demanded.

"Th-thank you…"

Wilson released him abruptly without acknowledging the words, and House stayed there, trembling, not daring even to rise back up on his knees as he heard the rustling sounds of Wilson's moving about the room, making some kind of preparations. He was terrified that Wilson would go through with his threat to simply tie him down and leave him in the basement indefinitely, desperate to do something to redeem himself in the eyes of his captor.

He made himself completely pliant as Wilson pulled him up off his knees and then pushed him down again onto the mattress, guiding him down onto his stomach this time. House realized with a pathetic sense of relieved gratitude that the rough vinyl mattress had been covered with soft, clean sheets and a thin fleece blanket. When Wilson locked his hands into the cuffs above his head, House recognized the feeling of the special padded set he'd used in his other house, much easier and less painful on his bruised wrists.

House recognized that the surge of guilt he felt for his disobedience, in the light of these comforts Wilson had provided for him before he'd committed it, was irrational and dangerous, a disturbing sign of the gradual change in his mindset. He knew it for the chilling symptom it was.

Still, he couldn't help feeling it.

Wilson's words only served to reinforce his troubling emotions, as the younger man spoke in a cold, quiet tone. "You don't deserve all this, House. You were doing so well. I thought, 'Maybe he deserves a little bit of a break. I'm being awfully hard on him lately. Maybe I should make things a little more comfortable for him.' And what did you do? You immediately defy me the first chance you get."

"I'm sorry," House whispered. "I'm sorry, Wilson. Thank you…"

Wilson was quiet for a long moment, and House's entire body was tense with apprehension, waiting for his inevitable reaction. When Wilson's hand touched his hair again, House couldn't help but flinch – but the warm hand at the back of his head did not deliver another blow, but a soft, soothing caress instead. Wilson's weary sigh of resignation and defeat was strangely both relieving and frightening to House, as he really had no idea what exactly it meant.

Wilson's voice was soft, almost sympathetic, when he spoke again, fingers playing lightly through House's damp hair.

"You've got to learn to be obedient, House. You've got to stop resisting me. Every time I think things are about to get better for us, you have to go and ruin it by pulling some stupid stunt like this. Do you understand that? Do you understand how you keep setting us back, over and over again?"

House nodded obediently, his words muffled against the soft fabric beneath him. "Y-yes… I'm sorry… I wasn't… I mean…" He hesitated, biting his lower lip anxiously, uncertain as to what Wilson's reaction might be to his explanation.

"Go on," Wilson gently urged him. "What? Say what you wanna say, House. I won't hurt you for it."

House was quiet for a moment, trying to think of the right words, though his mind didn't seem to be functioning at full capacity at the moment. The trauma and terror of the past hour had him in a state of partial shock, struggling to think through the fear and confusion that filled his racing thoughts.

"I… I wasn't going to… wasn't trying to… to get away, or anything," he finally ventured to explain, his voice soft and subdued. "I just… I've had this blindfold on for… for so long… I just… wanted to see… something. _Anything_. I wasn't going to… to _do_ anything. I t-tried to put it back, I just… I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Wilson… I'm so sorry…"

Wilson considered that for a moment, his hand still stroking soothingly through House's hair. "I know," he conceded at last. "I know you are. But… that doesn't change what you've done. It doesn't change the fact that you still haven't learned that what you _want_ doesn't matter. I have to keep you safe, House. It's not pleasant, but I have to do what I have to do to make sure that you'll let me do that – and that means making you understand that _I'm_ in charge here. That blindfold comes off if and when I say it does – not when you want it to. Is that clear?"

House nodded, whispering, "Yes."

Wilson was quiet a moment before replying as he rose to his feet. "Maybe twenty-four hours without your pills will make it just a little bit clearer."

"No," House whimpered, feeling frustrated, fearful tears forming in his eyes. "Wilson, please…"

"You can shut up," Wilson cut him off calmly. "On your own – or I can put the gag back. Your choice."

House was silent, dreading the prospect of having the uncomfortable gag to add to his list of hardships. He knew better than to think that pleading with Wilson would help at this point. He kept quiet, his heart sinking with despair as Wilson's slow footsteps faded away up the stairs, and the door closed firmly behind him.


	15. Chapter 15

Over the next twenty-four hours, Wilson came down twice to take House upstairs to the bathroom, and brought him two delicious, carefully prepared meals – but he gave him no Vicodin. House was careful to be as compliant as possible, allowing Wilson to lead and manipulate him in whatever way he saw fit, afraid that even the slightest resistance would result in a longer period of punishment.

By the time a full day and night had passed, House was in a lot of pain – though perhaps less than he would have expected, due to his recent forced detox. After going nearly a week without Vicodin, and then only having it in very limited amounts, a single day was not as difficult as it would have been before.

It wasn't exactly easy, either.

Overwhelming relief filled him when Wilson helped him sit up and placed two pills in his mouth, following them with a glass of water to wash them down. House's shoulders shook with relief as Wilson carefully inspected his wrists and ankles, making sure that the bonds had done no damage since the last time he'd checked.

"Okay." Wilson's voice was mild and patient. "You need a shower. Think if we try this again, you can behave yourself this time?"

House nodded, not venturing to speak, and doing his best to cooperate as Wilson pulled him to his feet. This time, the bath was carried out without the benefit of a drug to dull House's senses, so the shame and degradation of the event was fully felt by him. Wilson left the blindfold on throughout, and House knew better than to either try to remove it, or try to fight Wilson without the benefit of his sight; so he was basically as helpless as he would have been bound.

Even when Wilson left the room to get clean towels, leaving House's wrists free as he knelt blindfolded on the floor, House knew better than to try to take advantage of such limited freedom. He had no way of knowing how quickly Wilson might return, and knew that after more than a week of being confined to the bed in the basement, his strength would not be enough to overpower his captor.

Despite these facts, Wilson seemed reassured by his cooperation.

Once he was clean and dry, Wilson led him back down to the basement, pushing him onto his knees on the mattress. House kept still when he felt the familiar pain of Wilson's hand in his hair, harshly pulling his head back in a gesture of dominance. He swallowed hard, his breath quickening, but kept quiet and still, waiting for Wilson to speak.

"How would you like to have the blindfold off for a while?"

House's stomach lurched, and he felt a sharp pang of longing at the very suggestion. Besides that brief glimpse of the dim, bare bathroom upstairs, he had seen nothing but darkness for over a week. Both eager to receive the offered privilege, and terrified that he might accidentally do something to forfeit it, House nodded slowly, with difficulty against Wilson's restraining hand.

"Y-yes," he whispered. "Yes… _please_…"

"It won't be permanent, you know," Wilson reminded him in a calmly warning tone. "You can have either the blindfold off, or the restraints – but not both at once. I don't trust you that much yet."

"Okay," House agreed, his voice hoarse with disuse. "Okay. Thank you," he hurried to add, remembering Wilson's previous orders.

He could hear the smile in Wilson's voice as his hand became gentle in House's hair, and he murmured approvingly, "You're welcome. That's good, House. I'm glad you're learning so quickly." A moment later, House's stomach dropped as he felt Wilson's breath against his ear, and his voice lowered to a hushed, controlled tone of soft menace. "Just remember… I can take or give your sight… control your freedom of movement… as I choose. If you prove to be unappreciative of these privileges, House… you'll lose them. If you push me hard enough… possibly on a permanent level. Do you understand me?"

Too terrified by the implications of Wilson's vague threats to even speak, House nodded frantically, his breath ragged and uneven as a shiver of horror went down his spine.

"Then… you'd have no choice but to surrender, would you, House?" Wilson mused. The strangely wistful note in his voice only served to increase House's dread. "You'd _have_ to depend on me completely… wouldn't you? There'd be no option…"

"I will," House promised, his voice a shallow, breathless whisper as pleading words fell from his lips in a desperate, frantic babble. "Please… I will without that, Wilson, I swear. Please don't… I mean… you don't have to…"

"Shhh," Wilson soothed him, a trace of cruel amusement in his voice. "That doesn't have to happen, House, not if you cooperate. I'm just saying… if you _don't_…"

"I will," House assured him desperately. "I'll cooperate. I will."

Wilson released his grip on House's hair, and House tensed as he waited for the next touch, unable to know whether it would be gentle or violent. Abruptly the blindfold was removed, and House blinked against the dim light of the room as his neglected eyes began to adjust to the restoration of his vision.

His prison was a large, bare basement room, with stone walls and a cement floor, and no furnishings at all besides a washer and dryer in the far corner of the room, and the mattress to which he had been confined. House shivered as he looked at the thick rings bolted to the floor at the four corners of the mattress, to which Wilson had connected the cuffs for his wrists and ankles.

A chance glance upward drew House's vaguely bewildered gaze to a tiny rectangular window near the ceiling, through which he could see a section of midnight blue, lit by a tiny sliver of moon. House had completely lost track of time in the endless hours of his captivity, and was a little surprised to find that it was night. He stared up at the bright white crescent, barely within the field of his vision, strangely transfixed by the sight that under other circumstances would have seemed so ordinary.

_So the world outside these walls _does_ still exist._

The thought passed through House's mind with nearly equal parts ironic sarcasm, and genuine wonder. In the struggle to simply survive the next agony to which his life had been reduced, he had all but forgotten the existence of the outside world. He knew he needed to escape, to somehow get to freedom – but that freedom had become an abstract hope, the alternative to the torment of his daily existence. In the past few miserable, terrifying days, he hadn't once thought about his job, or the people he knew, or the basic simplicities of life such as the pale glow of a bit of moonlight.

"We'll start off slow," Wilson explained, and House glanced anxiously toward him, afraid to appear as if he was not paying attention. Wilson seemed oblivious to House's distraction as he continued calmly. "As long as you continue to behave in a manner that's deserving of it, we'll take the blindfold off for a couple of hours every day from now on. Does that sound good to you?"

House nodded meekly, his wide-eyed gaze drifting unconsciously back toward the window and the tiny bit of bright light beyond it. He couldn't help but think of the sweet, fresh scent of the cool night air just beyond the window, and the stars that were surely visible on a night as clear as this, if only his tiny patch of sky were big enough to reveal them to his sight.

As Wilson replaced the blindfold a little while later, House felt a profound sense of loss and disappointment as his brief luxury was stolen from him; but it was mingled with a hope like none he'd felt since this ordeal had begun. It was so easy to lose himself amidst the horror and confusion of what was happening to him – so easy to give up the fight and surrender to the oppressive power of the madman holding him captive.

But tonight, he felt like he could fight again.

Tonight… he'd been reminded what it was that he was fighting for.

*******************************

Following her conversation with Wilson, Cuddy felt a little bit better to know that House had actually contacted Wilson to let him know about his plans. If House would have told anyone the truth about where he was going and what he was doing, she was fairly certain that person would be Wilson.

Still, she couldn't shake the nagging sensation that something wasn't quite right.

Wilson had seemed perfectly calm and casual when she'd spoken with him, despite the fact that she'd been trying to reach him for weeks with no response. His explanation of being out of town and unreachable made sense; but it wasn't like Wilson to disappear for so long with no means of being contacted – not in his chosen field of practice. He could never be sure when one of his patients might need him, and it was not like him to ignore that possibility.

_Unless… maybe he was just ignoring _me_…_

That was a troubling thought, and she found herself wondering why he would have deliberately chosen not to take her calls. True, things had been awkward between Wilson and… well, anyone who'd known Amber, really… ever since her death. But that didn't seem to be reason enough for him to reject what was a potentially important call from his former employer.

_But _why_, then? What is he hiding? Maybe he's helping _House_ hide? Maybe _House_ is trying to avoid everybody – that's much more in character – and Wilson's just keeping his mouth shut to protect him?_

She had just about decided to call House's parents and risk the awkwardness and embarrassment of tracking him down at home – just to alleviate her fears and reassure herself that he was indeed safe – when her cell phone rang, the screen displaying a familiar but utterly unexpected name.

_Blythe House._

Cuddy's eyes widened in surprise, and she drew in a deep shaky breath as she opened the phone and hit the button to accept the call. Anticipation filled her with the knowledge that for better or worse, her questions were about to be answered.

"Dr. Cuddy? This is Gregory House's mother…"

"Yes, of course," Cuddy cordially greeted her, trying not to sound too concerned. "What can I do for you, Mrs. House?"

"I'm trying to reach my son…"

Cuddy had to struggle to focus on the rest of the woman's words, her mind struggling to process that first statement, and all its various troubling implications. Still, she forced herself to listen as Blythe continued in a voice that was soft and subdued and tremulous, as if perhaps she'd recently been crying.

"I've tried Dr. Wilson's phone," Blythe explained. "But he hasn't answered or returned my calls."

"Yes, I only just reached him yesterday," Cuddy reassured her. "He's been out of service for about a week. If you try him again, you should be able to reach him now."

"Oh, thank you," Blythe sighed with clear relief. "I'll try him again. I tried Greg's number, but it's been disconnected. I thought perhaps I could reach him here…"

"Mrs. House, I'm very sorry," Cuddy began cautiously, trying to decide how much she could tell the clearly distraught woman without further upsetting her. "But… Dr. House gave me his notice over a week ago. He… no longer works here."

Blythe was silent for a long moment, her shock nearly palpable through the phone lines. "But… surely he would have mentioned… Well, no… I haven't spoken to him in months, but… Why would he quit his job? Did he find another in the area?"

"I'm… not sure." Cuddy hesitated, then decided it was best not to tell House's mother where he'd said he was going. Such information would certainly only further worry her. "He wasn't exactly clear on that, I'm afraid."

"Well, I'll keep trying Dr. Wilson, I suppose. I really need to reach him. Could you pass on a message for him if you happen to hear from him before I do? I really need him to call me right away."

"Is everything all right?" Cuddy asked with genuine concern. "Any way I can help?"

Blythe sounded weary as she answered. "I appreciate that, Dr. Cuddy, but I just need to let him know what's happened as soon as possible. My husband… Greg's father… has just passed away."


	16. Chapter 16

Wilson frowned in annoyance as his cell phone began to ring.

He looked away from his computer screen and the results of his latest search of Stockholm syndrome, mind control, and various methods of breaking prisoners, to pick up his phone and glance at the screen.

His frown deepened when he read the name and number displayed on the screen.

_Blythe House._

He hesitated for just a moment before deciding that this was a call he needed to take. If Blythe was trying to reach her son, it only stood to reason that she would eventually call the hospital – which meant that Cuddy would speak to her, and most likely tell her that she had just recently spoken to Wilson about House. With that in mind, it would seem terribly suspicious for him to continue to avoid her calls.

_Besides… if she's already suspicious… if she's put anything together at all… it's better if I know sooner rather than later…_

He answered the phone, keeping his tone cordial and mild, as if it was nothing more than a pleasant surprise to hear from her. He interjected appropriate amounts of regret and sympathy when she informed him of the death of House's father, even while inwardly cursing the inconvenient timing that had led her to seek contact with the son she ordinarily spoke with two or three times a year at best.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. House," he told her with as much sincerity as he could muster. "I haven't heard from Greg since he called to tell me he'd quit his job; and he didn't tell me where he was going or how to reach him. You know how he is. I just… assumed that if he wanted to contact me again, he would."

"But… he hasn't." Blythe sounded worried.

That was bad… but not as bad as drawing her suspicions onto himself by telling her nothing.

"No, I'm sorry, he hasn't," he informed her apologetically. "But I promise I'll let you know if I hear from him."

He excused himself from the call as tactfully and swiftly as possible, but he'd barely closed the phone when it began to ring again. He glared at the name on his screen, frowning in irritation. He had no desire to speak with Cuddy again.

_Why can't that bitch just mind her own business?_

"Hello?"

"House didn't go to stay with his parents."

Wilson took a deep breath to steady himself, not wanting to betray his annoyance to Cuddy, especially not while she sounded as worried and suspicious as she did right now. He considered his response before answering in a calm voice of mild concern.

"I know. I just spoke with his mother. She's trying to reach him. Naturally, I didn't tell her that he told us he was going to be with her…"

"Why would he lie about this?" Cuddy sounded anxious and agitated. "Why would he tell us that's where he was going if he wasn't?"

Wilson was quiet for a moment, making his voice steady and patient when he replied. "He's a grown-up. He can take care of himself… make his own choices. We shouldn't… panic, just because he's not choosing to let us in on those choices lately." He paused, letting a cautious tremor of laughter enter his voice as he reminded her, "That's… not exactly new behavior for him."

It took him about twenty minutes to get Cuddy calm enough for him to be reasonably sure she wasn't going to instigate some kind of official investigation, and to convince her that House was most likely safe and sound, off on some adventure of his own making.

Wilson hung up the phone with a weary sigh, shaking his head and pressing his thumb and forefinger against his eyes for a moment before rising to his feet and heading for the basement stairs.

It was time to check on House.

************************

House's wrists ached from the cuffs that bound his hands behind his back to a single ring in the floor; the familiar dull throbbing in his leg, muted temporarily by his last dose of Vicodin, was slowly seeping back in, beginning to make its presence known again. He was exhausted and thirsty and sore all over from his rough treatment over the past couple of weeks – but he wasn't thinking about any of those things.

House's attention was fully focused on the tiny rectangle of brilliant blue high above his head – his tiny window onto the outside world.

The blindfold had been off for a couple of hours now, and House had used some of that time to take advantage of his temporary, relative freedom, to memorize what little he could see of his surroundings, filing it away for future use should the opportunity arise – but he kept finding his attention drawn again and again to that gorgeous patch of blue.

He was so focused that he was taken completely off guard by the soft touch of Wilson's hand on his disheveled hair. He flinched slightly, startled, but forced himself not to pull away, to simply submit to the display of Wilson's twisted affection. He turned his gaze on his friend, forcing an uncertain half-smile to his lips as he met Wilson's eyes.

He tried not to allow his fear and distrust of his friend to show in his eyes – but it was incredibly difficult. It was so difficult to reconcile the familiar, disarming smile, the warmth in Wilson's eyes, with the cruel threats and menacing voice he'd heard so often over the last couple of weeks. He'd expected Wilson to be… _changed_, somehow – to appear in some way as monstrous as the image of him had become in House's mind.

But he didn't appear dangerous or frightening at all. He appeared as he always had.

He was just… _Wilson_.

It was infinitely, painfully confusing.

Wilson returned his smile, his dark eyes warm with relief and approval. "You're doing so well, House," he mused, sitting down on the floor beside House, carefully setting down the tray he held with his free hand on the floor. "You haven't tried to escape… haven't talked back to me or even asked me for anything for the past three days. That's some really amazing progress from where we were… and I'm really proud of you."

House was quiet, unsure how to respond, and unsettled by the surge of ridiculous pleasure and pride he felt at Wilson's approval.

Wilson left House's wrists bound as he fed him his meal – a medium-rare steak, perfectly prepared, with a loaded baked potato and Wilson's signature salad. House savored the pleasant flavors and fragrances – one of the only pleasures he was allowed at all these days. Wilson gave him a glass of milk with which to wash it down, giving him his next dose of Vicodin with it.

House felt an unwelcome rush of gratitude for the relief the pill offered, and reminded himself once again that in this insane circumstance, Wilson was the enemy. He couldn't afford to allow himself to fall for Wilson's mind games and manipulations. He was simply biding his time – waiting until Wilson trusted him enough to give him a chance to escape.

"House…?"

House started, glancing up at Wilson again through wide, fearful eyes at the slightly threatening tone of Wilson's voice. House's stomach dropped when he saw the dark, cold glint of madness and suspicion in Wilson's eyes, and his mouth went dry with fear at the soft, pensive question from Wilson's lips.

"What are you thinking?"

House's mind raced, panicked, desperately seeking a convincing answer to the question – an answer that would not get him viciously punished.

_Well, the truth certainly isn't an option…_

He hesitated, his voice halting and tremulous as he answered. "I was… thinking… how much I appreciate your… giving me my Vicodin again. I… I needed them so bad, and… and when I wasn't getting them…" He shook his head, looking away, hoping the gesture appeared more subdued and humble than resentful and accusing. "I just… thank you. That's all. Just… thank you, Wilson."

Wilson laughed in soft surprise, reaching out a hand to stroke through House's hair in impulsive affection. "Aww, that's sweet…"

His gentle, disarming tone was immediately betrayed by the unexpected, brutal backhand that fell across House's face, knocking him backward onto the floor. Wilson caught a handful of his hair, jerking him painfully back up onto his knees. House cringed, his entire body taut and trembling with restrained panic as Wilson crouched close to him, studying his face with such raw, intrusive scrutiny that House trembled in dread of what he might find there.

"Now how about the truth, House?" Wilson whispered close to his face, a cold smile on his lips. "How about you tell me what you were really thinking just then? Before I have to find another way of getting it out of you? And you _know_ I will, House – one way or another."

House bit back the panicked cry that rose to his lips as Wilson slid his hand slowly back and forth across the scarred place on House's thigh. He shook his head pleadingly, his mind unable to focus on anything but the dreadful threat of suffering hanging over his head.

"Wilson… no, please… I wasn't…"

"Don't make it worse by lying again, House," Wilson warned him, his hand going still and tightening slightly. "Tell me. _What_. Were you _thinking_?"

House struggled through the haze of terror to think of the right words to convince Wilson of his loyalty and submission. It was confusing, trying to balance what he actually thought and felt with what he knew he _should _be thinking and feeling, as well as with what he needed Wilson to _think _he felt and thought. Wilson's reactions were so volatile, so frighteningly unpredictable, that he had no way to be sure of what words would appease him, and what words would only incite his fury to more dangerous levels.

A moment of clarity struck him, as a single thought went through his mind.

_The only way to beat him at his own game… is to let him win._

"I… I'm sorry," he stammered, his eyes closed, gulping in a desperate draught of air as he struggled to control his own terrified reaction. "I just… I didn't want to… to make you angry, but… I was just thinking about… g-going outside again." He hesitated, his voice hushed and trembling when he continued pleadingly, "I'm going crazy locked up down here, Wilson. I… I know you know what's best… I know you don't want me asking, so… so that's why I didn't… but… but I can't help thinking it."

House knew better than to tell another outright lie, knew that Wilson would recognize his attempts at deception. He had to give Wilson something that was actually true and genuine, and therefore believable – but he could hardly tell him that he'd been thinking about how to outsmart him and escape, eventually. So, he settled on the admission of his longing for freedom.

It wasn't exactly a lie – but it wasn't exactly the answer to Wilson's question, either.

"I'm sorry," House whispered, swallowing back a very real sob of terror. "Please… don't… don't be mad, Wilson. I just… I didn't want to… to make you mad…"

Wilson was silent for a long moment, and House finally ventured to open his eyes, simply because he had to know how his captor was reacting to his explanation. Wilson's dark gaze was cool and unyielding, but the hard lines of his mouth had softened with sympathy.

"I'm glad you were honest with me, House," Wilson relented at last, his tone guarded and warning. "But you have to know that I can't let you go outside yet – not as long as you're still not being open with me about these things. You were honest just now – but you lied to me before, and that means I still can't trust you."

House tensed in anticipation of pain as Wilson jerked him closer, yanking his head back to emphasize his complete vulnerability.

"I decide when the time comes for you to be allowed that great a privilege," Wilson reminded him in a voice of soft steel. "And it's not now… not yet." He paused, before releasing House abruptly and rising to his feet, reaching out to pick up the discarded blindfold from the floor.

House's heart sank, and he shook his head slowly, pleadingly, but dared not voice his protest.

"Since you're obviously ungrateful for the privileges that _have_ been restored to you – maybe a little time without them might help you appreciate them more."

House had no choice but to submit and silently accept the blindfold as Wilson tied it over his eyes again, and left him bound and in total darkness in the lonely silence of his basement prison.


	17. Chapter 17

Worry kept Wilson up that night, as he tried to determine what was the wisest course of action given the current circumstances. The urgency of the need to keep his secret was steadily increasing, with Cuddy and House's mother both pressing him for answers as to House's whereabouts.

_Stupid to establish yourself as the only person who's had any contact with him since he "disappeared"… Shouldn't have given them that mental association in the first place…_

He knew that the more he talked to them about House, the more likely it was that he would accidentally let something slip to give their arrangement away. House was safe and sound within his care, but neither Cuddy nor Mrs. House was likely to give up looking for House unless they could be reassured that he was okay. Wilson wished that he could just tell them that House was with him, but he knew better.

_They'd never understand the lengths to which I've had to go to protect him…_

A twinge of guilt struck Wilson, however, as he remembered the note of sorrow and concern in Blythe House's voice. She had just lost her husband of more than fifty years – and now, without a clue where House was or how he was doing, she had to be wondering whether or not she'd lost her only son as well.

_She deserves to know that he's okay… and House deserves to be at his father's funeral. Regardless of what he thought of the man, he'll regret it at some point if he's not able to be there… and he'll resent me for it, too._

Wilson's frown deepened as he considered his options, trying to think of a way to reconcile his conflicting desires.

_I'd love to take him to the funeral… but I'd have to be _sure_ he'd keep his mouth shut and do as he's told…_

****************************

House heard Wilson's swift, purposeful steps on the stairs and turned his eyes reluctantly away from the small patch of white-grey light which had consumed his focus for the past hour. It was his only connection with the outside world, and House found that, when he was allowed his sight, it arrested his attention more readily than the bare, boring stone of his basement prison.

He warily looked up as Wilson approached the place where he had bound him, sitting on his mattress with his hands locked behind his back and his legs free to move as he pleased. His stomach dropped as a feeling of nausea came over him at the cold determination he saw in Wilson's dark, narrowed eyes.

House's voice was hushed and cautious as he ventured a tentative question.

"Wilson… what…?"

A vicious kick to his bare stomach silenced House's quiet words. Wilson followed him as he stumbled backward onto his side, grabbing him by the hair and jerking him back up to a seated position. House winced at the pain to his abused scalp as Wilson shook him slightly, leaning in close to his face.

"Did I say you could talk, House? _Did I_?"

House shook his head rapidly, his breath shallow and ragged, his body tense and trembling with instinctive panic as he answered in a voice that was barely a whisper.

"No, no, you didn't… please… I'm sorry… _why_…?"

"_Shut up_!"

Wilson demanded, striking him again, this time slamming his fist into House's lower abdomen with enough force to drive the breath from his body. He gripped House's arms and yanked him close, his face inches from House's own. His voice lowered to a dangerously soft murmur as his fingers tightened painfully on House's arms.

"Look at me."

House hesitated, meeting his eyes for just a moment before looking away, disturbed and frightened by the intense scrutiny of Wilson's gaze.

"I said look at me, House, or do I need to hit you again?"

House forced himself to hold Wilson's gaze, his own eyes wide with shock and bewilderment at the unexpected and entirely unprovoked attack. Wilson's mouth twisted into a cruel smile as he ran the backs of his fingers gently down House's cheek, his lips twitching with a hint of amusement when House flinched away from his hand.

"You don't ask me why. You don't question at all. You just accept my decision as best for you, and do as you're told. Do you understand me?"

House nodded hurriedly, having no idea what might have set Wilson off this time, only knowing that he had to appease him before he hurt him any worse. "Yes… I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Wilson…"

"Shut up," Wilson repeated, calmer this time, but no less commanding.

House obediently said nothing else, unconsciously biting the inside of his lower lip in an attempt to hold back the desperate words that wanted to pour out of him. He was deliberately pliant and cooperative as Wilson unchained his wrists, then pushed him down onto the mattress on his stomach.

House trembled as Wilson chained his wrists and ankles, flinching slightly when the cuff locked around his right ankle. Wilson hadn't made him wear that particular restraint since he had started giving him his Vicodin again, and House had hoped that he wouldn't make him wear it again at all. He didn't understand why Wilson seemed so angry, and was being so rough and violent with him for no apparent reason.

House bit back a whimper of protest as Wilson covered his eyes with the blindfold, aware that voicing his displeasure would only serve to further infuriate his captor. A sense of overwhelming despair came over him when Wilson ordered him to open his mouth, and pressed the gag past his lips, fastening it tightly behind his head. Like the chain on his right ankle, Wilson hadn't used the gag in days.

Without a word of reassurance or explanation Wilson stalked away, his rapid, purposeful footsteps echoing in House's ears as he was left helplessly confused, frightened, and utterly alone.

****************************

Wilson called Cuddy on his way to his car, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to her when she answered. He made his tone one of surprise and relief as he heard her pick up the line.

"Hello?"

"Well, I just heard from House." He put a trembling little laugh at the end of the words, as if he almost couldn't believe it.

"You did?" Cuddy sounded incredulous, but relieved. "Where is he? Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Wilson assured her. "And I know where he is, but… he asked me not to tell anyone else. He said… he said he just needs to disappear for a while, you know?"

Cuddy was silent for a long moment, and Wilson held his breath, hoping he was being as convincing as he thought he was. When she finally spoke, her voice was solemn and uncertain.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No," Wilson ruefully replied. "I'm not. But… he's an adult. It's his call. If he doesn't want anyone to know where he is, as long as he's safe, it's not my place to tell anyone where he is. And just so you know, I _di_d make that a condition of my silence. He's going to call me at least once a week to check in and let me know he's still… you know… _alive_… until he decides he's ready to contact everybody again himself. In the mean time, he said to let you and his mom know to call me to get messages to him."

Cuddy was quiet and thoughtful as she replied, grudging relief mingled with the concern in her voice. "I know he's been through a lot in the last month or so. I know it's got to be hard to deal with, and he has a tendency to withdraw even more when he's going through something, but… that's what has me worried. He should be in therapy, not secluding himself like some kind of hermit…"

"I know, I know," Wilson conceded with a weary sigh. "I've said all that to him. You know how well he listens."

"And he listens to _you_ better than most," Cuddy admitted. "So… I guess this is the best we're gonna get from him right now."

"Probably so." There was sympathy in Wilson's voice, and he hoped that it adequately covered the relief and satisfaction he was actually feeling.

"Did you tell him about his father?"

"I did."

Cuddy was hesitant. "Is he… How did he take it?"

"About how you would have expected him to take it. He said good riddance, basically, and that he isn't going to go to the funeral, but I told him he needs to, no matter how he felt about his father. If nothing else, he at least needs to be there for his mother – and if he doesn't go, even though he doesn't think so, he _will_ regret it at some point."

"So… you convinced him to go?" Cuddy sounded hopeful at the prospect of House coming back into contact with his old life in any way at all. "He'll be there?"

"He'll be there," Wilson confirmed. "I'm going to pick him up and take him myself. Trust me, he'll definitely be there."

"Thank you, Wilson," Cuddy sighed. "You're really a lifesaver. You have no idea what a weight you've taken off my mind."

"No problem. I was really worried too," he replied. "And don't worry about anything else. I'll call his mom and let her know what's going on."

He hung up the phone feeling rather optimistic about the plan he was putting together. He stopped the car outside the shop that was his ultimate destination, where he would find the one thing more he needed in order to ensure House's cooperation with said plan. It took him about twenty minutes to make his purchase and get back out to his car.

He used the drive home to call House's mother and give her the same story he'd given Cuddy. Fortunately, she seemed to believe it just as readily as Cuddy had. The thing that worked in Wilson's favor most strongly was that it really wasn't unlike House at all to just disappear without telling anyone where he was going. House's past behavior made Wilson's story that much more believable.

Blythe House didn't ask a lot of questions, and accepted it when Wilson gently, tactfully told her that House didn't want her to know where he was right then. She just seemed relieved and grateful that Wilson had found her son and was going to bring him to the funeral.

Wilson parked his car in the driveway, then took a moment to process the steps he'd just taken, closing his eyes and resting his head on the headrest for a moment, breathing deeply in an effort to steady himself.

_This is going to work. This is going to work. They're all set up to believe whatever you say, and you'll be able to get him there and back again without any trouble… _

Still, Wilson couldn't shake an uneasy sensation of uncertainty.

… _as long as you can keep House under control… as long as you can make him obey and keep him from opening his mouth… everything should be fine…_

Wilson picked up his purchase from the passenger seat beside him, then went inside, where he sat in the living room, preparing it. He held it tentatively at first, testing its weight, adjusting to the feel of it in his hand. Then, he set it down on the coffee table and stared at it for a while, wrestling with his own uneasiness at the mere thought of handling it.

It wasn't the type of thing he would have bought under any other conditions.

_But it might be just the thing to convince House that I mean business – that there's no choice but to go along with whatever I say, and that it's definitely in his best interest not to try to start something when we go to the funeral…_

Steeling himself for what he had to do next, Wilson rose to his feet, taking the small black pistol he'd purchased off the coffee table and grasping it tightly in a nervous, shaking hand as he made his way purposefully toward the basement stairs.


	18. Chapter 18

The familiar sound of Wilson's footsteps on the stairs was far more unsettling than usual to House, given the strange and frightening circumstances of Wilson's last departure. He had no idea why Wilson might be angry with him; he hadn't done anything to incur the wrath of his captor, having been perfectly obedient and submissive to him for several days at this point.

His mind racing, trying to figure out what might have happened to explain Wilson's behavior, House braced himself for impact as Wilson swiftly closed the distance between them. Coherent thought was replaced with panic as Wilson's hands roughly unfastened House's wrists and ankles from the bed, then grabbed him by the hair and yanked him up onto his knees.

_Don't fight, don't fight, it'll just make it worse…_

House reminded himself over and over again to keep still and pliant in the younger man's grasp, well aware that resistance would only further infuriate Wilson. House flinched as Wilson unfastened the gag and tore it from his mouth, then yanked the blindfold off without even bothering to untie it.

House kept his eyes closed for a long moment, swallowing hard to moisten his dry mouth as Wilson pulled slowly but insistently on his hair, forcing House's back into a painfully bent position. His hands trembled at his sides, but House didn't dare move them, didn't want any slight gesture on his part to be misinterpreted as resistance. He felt Wilson's breath against his ear, his voice low and softly menacing.

"You going to be good and cooperate with me, House?"

House nodded as best he could, trembling with dread and the strain of resisting his fight-or-flight impulse. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, Wilson…"

House couldn't hold back a startled yelp of fear as Wilson abruptly grabbed his arm and turned his body so that he could slam him hard against the wall next to the mattress. House opened his eyes as Wilson's right hand locked around his throat, squeezing just enough to be threatening without actually restricting his breathing.

House's eyes widened with horror when he glanced down to the see the pistol in Wilson's hand. House shook his head slightly, searching Wilson's cold gaze with mounting panic.

"Wilson… what… _please_…"

Wilson's expression did not change as he cocked the gun with pointed deliberation, pressing its muzzle under House's chin to slowly, firmly push his head back. House felt his stomach drop at the feel of the cold steel against his skin, and the knowledge that Wilson could kill him in an instant if he chose to do so. Wilson's voice was soft and edged with warning when at last he spoke again.

"Are you supposed to speak without my permission, House?"

House shook his head, his breath ragged and shallow as he struggled to control his own panic. He bit his lower lip, fighting back the impulse to apologize, to try to reason with Wilson, possibly even to beg for his life – none of which options would have been in the least helpful.

"That's right," Wilson affirmed in the same unsettlingly low, even tone. "And who decides what you are and aren't allowed to do, House?"

"Y-you do," House whispered, his eyes downcast.

"Right." Wilson slowly nodded his approval, raising a gentle hand to run soothingly through House's hair in a gesture in stark contrast to the steady pressure of the gun against House's throat. "And you're going to do exactly as you're told, aren't you? You're going to listen to what I tell you… and obey… and not do anything at all to make me think that I might need to use this… aren't you, House?"

"Yes," House readily agreed, nodding hurriedly. "I'll do whatever you say, Wilson… just… don't…"

"Shhh."

The warning reminder to silence was all the encouragement House needed to halt his desperate, pleading words. He closed his mouth, struggling to steady his breathing, his shoulders sagging with relief when Wilson finally removed the gun and placed it in his own pocket. Wilson was quiet for a long moment before finally offering some semblance of explanation.

"I need to run an errand… and I need to take you with me."

House's eyes went wide with disbelief, his thoughts swirling with a mixture of excitement and hope and uncertainty and fear. He felt an uneasy sick sensation in the pit of his stomach with the realization of how nervous the idea of going outside made him at this point, after so long spent inside.

_I should be feeling nothing but excitement about the idea… so why does it scare me so much? It's not _just _because he's got to be up to something. It's at least partly because he's gotten to me these past few weeks. Have to keep your head clear, can't let his mind games work, or you'll never get out of here…_

House's mental self-rebuke was abruptly cut off as Wilson held the gun in his face again. House flinched slightly, drawing in a sharp gasp as Wilson traced the cool metal slowly along his jaw line.

"If you try anything…" Wilson softly stated, with a chillingly calm certainty that made House's stomach clench. "… if you resist me while we're out, or try to let anyone know what's going on… I'll have no choice but to kill anyone that you manage to involve in our personal affairs. Do you understand?"

House nodded, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat. "Yes… I won't, Wilson, you won't h-have to…"

"Not if you don't make me," Wilson amended with a severe, warning look. "But I will if you make me. And then, I'll bring you back here and remind you who's in charge, House… no matter what it takes."

"Okay…"

House whispered, hurrying to ease Wilson's concerns and reassure him that he would cooperate. His heart was pounding, his thoughts swirling madly as he tried to make sense of the situation. Why would Wilson take him outside? Was it some kind of a test? Would he get the opportunity to get away? How could he be sure when the time was right? He kept his eyes averted, submissively downcast, afraid of what Wilson might see there.

"I'll do what you say, Wilson. You… you can trust me…"

House remained quiet and pliant as Wilson led him upstairs, the gun safely tucked into his pocket. It was the first opportunity House had received to get a good look at his surroundings when he was unbound and in only a moderate amount of pain, and therefore able to more freely focus on the nature of his prison.

He chose not to look at it too closely, anyway.

He knew Wilson was watching him closely, and didn't want to give him any reason to be suspicious.

Wilson led him into the bathroom where he helped him to bathe, and House repressed his embarrassment and simply submitted to the gentle invasion of his dignity. When the bath was finished, Wilson left House with a couple of clean, soft towels and instructed him to dry off, while he left the bathroom. It momentarily crossed House's mind to try to slip out of the bathroom, and possibly out of the house; but he quickly dismissed that idea.

How far could he get, naked and with no idea of where he was? Wilson would almost certainly catch him before he could get away.

Wilson returned with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, which he handed to House with instructions to get dressed. House stared at the clothes with a blank expression for a long moment, trying to wrap his mind around the concept of wearing clothes again after so long without them.

"Go ahead," Wilson ordered, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. "Get dressed."

House felt his face flush with embarrassment at the awkward clumsiness of his motions as he obeyed, his efforts hampered by his trembling, weakened limbs, as well as the indignity of being watched so closely as he dressed. Still, he managed to complete the task within a few minutes, marveling at the simple pleasure of soft fabric against his skin, of being covered after his long period of forced nakedness.

Once he was fully dressed, Wilson moved forward to grasp his arm, his free hand moving to rest over the pocket where the gun was hidden. House tensed, but forced himself not to pull away as Wilson led him from the bathroom and toward the front door.

The daylight seemed impossibly bright, despite the overcast sky, as they made their way to the car. Once his eyes adjusted, however, House found himself automatically slowing his pace, staring around him at the light, the trees, everything… just blissfully taking it all in.

"Move," Wilson snapped, jerking him sharply forward by the arm.

House abruptly lowered his gaze, obediently quickening his pace as they neared the car. He remained silent and subdued as Wilson started the car and drove them only a couple of blocks to the corner store. He waited, unsure what to do, as Wilson got out and walked around the car, opening the door for him and expectantly waiting for him to get out.

"Stay close to me," Wilson ordered softly. "And don't say a word to anyone unless they speak to you first. If they do, you mind what you say."

House nodded once, a nervous swallow visible in his throat, but did not speak.

They only spent a few minutes in the store, as Wilson picked out some snacks and a couple of magazines. House wondered why he had chosen to bring him along on what seemed like such an unnecessary trip, especially when he'd had no trouble whatsoever leaving House alone for hours on end. When they approached the check out counter, House found himself longing to speak up, to say something to the guy behind the counter to let him know that he needed help – but he didn't dare.

_If Wilson kills him, because of me… no. It wouldn't do any good, and I couldn't live with that…_

As Wilson led him back out to the car, House felt his hope slipping away; but he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

The opportunity he had hoped for simply hadn't come.

_Next time,_ he told himself. _Next time…_ _I'll find a way…_

***************************

As soon as they were through the front door, Wilson ordered House to undress again. Disappointed, but knowing he had no choice, House obeyed, giving the pile of discarded clothing a single, longing look as Wilson took his arm and led him toward the basement.

Once there, Wilson sat him down on his mattress and chained his wrists behind his back. House was just relieved that for the moment, he was not chaining him down spread eagle and blinding and gagging him again. He was finding that in this state of such extreme captivity, freedom was a very relative term.

"You did very well, House," Wilson declared with a gentleness that had not been in his voice before their little excursion. "You were obedient, and I'm very proud of you."

House was angry at himself for the pleased warmth that stole through him at Wilson's approval, but couldn't make himself not feel it.

"Why didn't you try to get away?" Wilson asked. "And don't lie and say you didn't want to. I know better than to believe that."

House's heartbeat quickened, his mind racing to find the right answer. He hesitated a moment before answering with quiet honesty. "I… didn't want you to hurt anyone. I knew if… if I tried to get away, and… and someone got hurt… it'd be my fault…"

Wilson was quiet for a moment, and House held his breath, waiting for Wilson's judgment of his answer. When Wilson finally spoke, it was with solemn, calm acceptance, and House felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

"Thank you for being honest with me," Wilson replied. He was quiet for a moment before continuing in a slow, thoughtful tone. "That guy at the store was a stranger… and yet you cared whether or not he ended up hurt because of your actions."

House nodded slowly, cautiously, uncertain as to where Wilson was going with this.

"How would you feel about it if it wasn't a stranger? If it was your own friends or family that was placed in danger due to your own carelessness?"

House felt a slow, squeezing sensation in his chest, alarm building in his mind at those strange, unsettling words. He shook his head slowly in confusion, silently indicating that he needed clarification.

Wilson let out a heavy sigh of resignation, reaching out a gentle hand to rest on House's arm as he drew in a deep breath.

"House… I need to tell you something very important…"


	19. Chapter 19

"House… I've got some very bad news."

House was silent, afraid to speak, unsure of what type of news Wilson might have for him. As menacing as Wilson was being at the moment, House didn't want to take any chances of angering him any further. He just watched Wilson's face, silently waiting for the younger man to explain.

"Your mother called. House… it's your father…"

_Not my father_…

"He's… he's passed away. I'm so sorry, House. He's dead."

House wasn't quite sure what he felt at that unexpected announcement. There was a certain amount of regret – a sort of wistful, not-quite-sorrow at what might have been between him and the man who'd been married to his mother – as well as a surreal feeling, as if this was nothing more than a strange, unsettling dream. After so long without contact with the outside world, the people he'd known before seemed like characters from a story.

"I'm so sorry, House," Wilson repeated, his voice trembling slightly.

House felt a vindictive sense of satisfaction that Wilson seemed thrown by the situation, unsure of what to say or how to conduct himself. There was concern and uncertainty in his gaze, as he waited for House's reaction to the news.

"Good," House muttered. "Maybe my mother will actually have a life for the few years he didn't get the chance to suck dry."

"House!" Wilson's tone was only mildly rebuking, but House couldn't help but flinch slightly, tensing in preparation for some form of physical punishment. "Regardless of what you thought of the man, he was still your father…"

He wasn't, House knew; but he also knew better than to argue with Wilson at the moment.

"Maybe you're not sorry he's dead, but you should still show a little compassion and respect, if only for your mother's sake."

House frowned, puzzled by that remark. What difference did it make to his mother how he behaved, when she wasn't there to see it anyway? And wouldn't it be much more disrespectful and hurtful to her for her only son not to attend her husband's funeral? He dared not voice those thoughts aloud, however, for fear of how Wilson might react to what he would certainly perceive as an attempt at trickery and manipulation.

House tried to focus on Wilson's disapproving words, reminding himself that the other man was still speaking.

"…the way you really feel, you'd better try not to let that attitude show at the funeral…"

House's chest tightened with unease, his attention immediately arrested by Wilson's unexpected words. He looked up sharply at the face of his captor, searching Wilson's calm gaze with obvious surprise.

"What?" Wilson asked, sounding a little impatient.

House phrased his response with caution, careful to keep his voice subdued and non-confrontational. "We're… going to the funeral?"

"Well, of course we're going to the funeral." Wilson sounded stunned by the idea that they might not. "House, you can't just not show up for your own father's funeral. Even if you don't really care for yourself, you should at least be there to show support for your mother."

House's mind was racing as he tried to process the huge implications of this unexpected development. He was going to be allowed back into contact with his family and what passed for friends in his life at the moment. He was going to have a chance to communicate with someone besides Wilson – maybe even a chance to communicate the horrific situation in which he had found himself.

But… not if Wilson got suspicious and decided not to let him go.

House decided that a little reverse psychology was in order, as insurance.

"I don't want to go," he muttered, looking away with a heavy sigh.

Wilson frowned, initially suspicious – as House had expected. "You don't?"

"I hated the man, Wilson. Why would I want to go celebrate the life of an abusive, egotistical maniac who lived like nobody's opinions mattered but his and everyone but him was a pathetic, worthless idiot?"

Wilson shrugged, a smile of affectionate amusement on his lips. "So… I should stop buying you birthday presents, then?"

House forced a smile that would have come naturally under other circumstances. As it was, the occasional flashes of the old Wilson that came to the surface only served as a disturbing reminder that the man who had once been his best friend was definitely not okay.

"Wilson," House persisted, his voice soft and what he hoped passed for intimate and confiding, "you have no idea what he was like… the things he did. To me, _and_ my mom. To anyone unfortunate enough to disagree with him and not hide it, in fact. I'm glad he's gone, and I'd honestly rather not waste another moment on him."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, considering, and House had an awful moment in which he thought that perhaps he had been a little _too_ convincing, and Wilson would relent and change his mind about going.

"I understand how you feel about this, House…" Wilson conceded in a gentle, patient tone, and House's heart skipped a beat, a sick sensation coming over him.

_No, oh no… shit…_

"…but you need to go. You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you don't. Maybe not right away, but eventually." Wilson paused, letting out a heavy sigh of resignation before adding, "This is a really good example of why I have to take care of you like this, House. You need to trust me to make the right decision for you on this, because you're clearly not going to make it yourself."

House was quiet, cautious, his eyes locked onto Wilson's as he nodded slowly and answered with soft submission. "Okay."

"You'll stay close to me while we're there… behave yourself and act normally in front of everyone, and don't say anything about our arrangement… and everything will be just fine."

House nodded again, accepting Wilson's terms without question.

He knew that complete submission was likely the only way he would get a chance to escape.

"If you give me any trouble while we're there, House… if you start trying to get away, or to tell people things that are none of their business… then, things won't go so well." Wilson's tone remained calm and certain as he touched the gun in his waistband and continued, "Anyone you tell about this, I'll have to get rid of, in order to protect you. I… don't want to have to kill anyone, but… I'll do whatever I have to do to protect you, House."

House's stomach lurched at the thought of his mother or other innocents being harmed because of a miscalculation or reckless risk on his part. He shook his head slowly, swallowing hard, struggling over the words as he answered Wilson.

"Okay. I-I understand." He glanced with dread toward the weapon tucked into the waist of Wilson's pants, then met Wilson's eyes again. "Whatever you think is best."

*********************************

Cuddy glanced away from the paperwork she was filling out as a date in red on her desk calendar caught her attention. She drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she read the note over and over again, caught in the midst of indecision.

_John House's funeral. 2:00pm._

_I need to see him… to see for myself that he's all right. I have to be sure._

She frowned, mentally berating herself for her selfishness.

_This isn't about what_ I _need. It's about what_ House _needs. Not to mention his poor mother. I didn't even know Colonel House, and I've only met his wife a couple of times. They'd wonder what I was doing there. It's not like I have a real reason… besides House._

She'd spent so much time lately thinking about him, wondering where he was and how he was doing, that she wasn't sure she could keep herself away from what might be her only chance to see him anytime soon. She shook her head as she returned to her work, trying to busy herself enough to remove her thoughts from her ex-employee.

_I would definitely get some odd looks if I show up at the funeral… but it might be worth it. I'm not going to get any peace of mind until I see him. I don't really have a choice… I just have to make sure he's okay…_

*****************************

"Now, be sure that you stay close to me at all times. I want you within hearing distance; if at any time you're not, I'm gonna start worrying. Is that clear?"

House nodded silently, struggling to focus on Wilson's words over the overwhelming sights and sounds that filled his senses through the car windows. After so long with so little to engage his senses, it was almost too much. His head was beginning to ache, and he was finding it very difficult to focus.

Of course, his concentration issues might have had something to do with the sedatives Wilson had administered to him right before they left the house.

"_House_," Wilson snapped, a warning note in his voice. "Is that _clear_?"

"Y-yes," House responded, quiet and subdued. "Stay close to you."

"If anyone suggests that you go off alone with them, you'll need to make a polite excuse and stay with me," Wilson continued. "If you do anything otherwise, I'll assume it's because you're looking for a way to tell them our secrets, and I'll be forced to take care of them. Got it?"

House nodded hurriedly; he was listening this time. "I won't," he assured Wilson. "I swear, I'll stay with you."

"Good." Wilson's tone was stern as he asked, "What's your story again? Where have you been these last few months?"

House struggled to focus enough to retell the story as he and Wilson had rehearsed it. He stared at the dashboard in front of him, his words halting and hesitant.

"I've been… somewhere private, recovering from the accident and taking some time to myself. To… clear my head and all. And… I'd rather not tell anyone where that place is. Now, more than ever, I need some distance from… from everything. If anyone wants to get a message to me, they can talk to you about it, until I'm ready to… to go public again."

Wilson was silent for a long time, and House was tense and anxious, wondering what he'd gotten wrong as he waited for his response. Wilson parked the car in the parking lot outside the funeral home, then turned in his seat to face House more fully, accidentally – or maybe not-so-accidentally – revealing the gun tucked into his slacks, covered by his jacket under normal conditions.

House flinched, swallowing convulsively as Wilson edged nearer to him, reaching out a gentle hand to rest on his arm. He braced himself for punishment, mentally cursing the sedatives that dulled his memory and kept him from remembering every detail of the story Wilson had taught him.

Then, Wilson smiled, and a quiver of released tension and terror shook through House with the relief of knowing that he hadn't messed up so badly after all.

"Very good, House," Wilson declared softly. "That's perfect. Just… calm down a little. Try not to sound so freaked out. You've got the story down perfectly. Just stick to it, and everything's going to be just fine."

House nodded, too overwhelmed with mingled relief and anxiety over what was to come in the next couple of hours to trust his own voice. He took several deep breaths, struggling to control the violent shaking of his hands as Wilson opened his door and got out, stopping at the trunk to retrieve House's cane before going around the car to open House's door for him.

House didn't dare make a move unless Wilson told him to, for fear that Wilson might think he was trying something.

Wilson opened his door and took his arm, helping him to his feet, though he didn't really need the help. Once House was on his feet, Wilson pushed him gently back against the side of the car, a cool smile on his lips as he pressed forward into House's space. House drew in his breath sharply in alarm, his eyes submissively downcast, intensely aware of the scrutiny of Wilson's intent gaze on his face.

"You ready for this?" Wilson asked in a tone that was gentle but laced with warning.

House nodded, his breath quickening with fear.

"Shhh," Wilson soothed him, running a hand lightly up and down his arm. "It's gonna be fine. You just do as you're told and everything will be just fine. All right?"

House nodded again, trying to steady his trembling hands and slow his breathing.

"Okay, then," Wilson concluded, releasing House and stepping back so he could move away from the car, pressing House's cane into his hand. "This is it. Here we go."


	20. Chapter 20

Wilson had expected House to be more than a little overwhelmed by suddenly finding himself surrounded by so many people, after his long isolation. That was the dual reason for the sedatives – both to keep House relatively calm, and to provide an explanation to anyone who might ask about his distant, unusual behavior.

House stayed close to Wilson as they walked into the funeral home, his eyes downcast, his shoulders hunched forward as if to shield him from the rest of the world. As they reached the doorway of the room where the service would be held, Wilson reached over to gently squeeze House's arm to let him know that he would stay close.

It was both reassurance and warning.

Naturally, Blythe House was the first to approach her son as they entered. House tensed, not looking up as his mother embraced him.

"Greg… I'm so glad you came."

"Where else would I be?" House replied, but his voice was empty and hoarse, and his gaze never left the floor at her feet.

Blythe frowned, searching her son's face with concern. "Greg?"

"Mrs. House," Wilson interrupted discreetly reaching between them to gently take her arm and lead her a few feet away. "He's… not taken the news very well, I'm afraid. He's far more shaken by it than I expected, and I've had to… to prescribe him a sedative."

Blythe sighed, glancing past Wilson to her son with a look of sorrowful resignation, as if it hurt her to see him in such a state, but she could fully understand the reasons for it. Wilson continued in a hushed, respectful tone, drawing her attention back onto himself.

"I've never seen him cry before, Mrs. House. Not in thirteen years of friendship. But… when I told him about his father… he lost it. He couldn't get control of himself until I gave him the sedative. I'm very sorry; it seems to make him a little bit out of it, but… but its better than… the alternative…"

"Yes, of course," Blythe agreed with a nod and a sympathetic look in her son's direction. "Whatever he needs…"

"I know you wanted him to speak at the service, but I'm afraid… in this condition…"

"It's just not possible," Blythe concluded. "I understand, James. Honestly, I just appreciate your finding him and getting him here." She returned her tearful gaze to the younger man and embraced him firmly, speaking against his shoulder. "Thank you so much for taking care of my son… for making sure he's okay. I was so worried."

Wilson froze for a moment within her arms, eyes widening slightly over her shoulder, a slow swallow in his throat. He knew she had no way of knowing of all the trouble he'd gone through over the past few weeks to ensure House's safety, but it seemed that somehow she'd managed to sense how much he cared, and appreciated him for it anyway. He felt a warm rush of vindication and reassurance that he was indeed doing the right thing for his reckless, damaged best friend.

Blythe returned to her son, putting her arms around him again, one hand reaching up to caress soothingly through his hair before drawing back to meet his eyes. "I love you, Greg," she softly assured him. "Everything's going to be all right."

Wilson watched closely as House's blue eyes welled with tears, and he swallowed hard before his lips parted, trembling and hesitant.

"Mom… I…"

Wilson took a step behind Blythe, into House's line of vision, a single brow raised in warning, one hand edging toward his empty waistband, where he had kept the gun when he'd shown it to House. Of course, he didn't have it now. How ridiculously disrespectful would it be to bring a gun into a funeral chapel?

However, House had no idea of that.

There was a visible flash of fear in House's eyes before he looked down again to meet his mother's gaze with a weak, sad half-smile.

"I know," he finished quietly. "Everything's gonna be… just fine."

After a few moments, Blythe found herself drawn away by other sympathetic mourners, and Wilson politely excused himself and House to go inside and find seats. They were barely through the door when Wilson spotted Cuddy across the room. She spotted them, too, almost immediately, rising from her seat and making her way swiftly toward them with a certain urgency to her movements.

_Crap. What is_ she _doing here?_

"House!" Cuddy's voice trembled with relief as she reached them and impulsively embraced him. "Oh, my God, you're here!"

"Of course I'm here," House replied, his tone strangely level and blank. "My… father died."

Cuddy was a little taken aback by his blunt words, not quite sure how to take them. Under normal circumstances, it would have seemed like House's usual brand of utterly inappropriate sarcasm; but there wasn't a trace of humor or mockery in his tone – or any other emotion, either, for that matter.

She frowned, opening her mouth to speak, but Wilson quickly cut her off, glancing toward the platform, where the minister was approaching.

"I'm sorry, we really need to find our seats. We can talk after the service, all right?"

Cuddy reluctantly agreed, biting her lower lip in hesitation for a moment before turning and going back to her seat, allowing Wilson to lead House to the seats reserved for the family of the deceased. As they sat down, Wilson reached out a gentle hand to rest on House's knee, leaning in close to speak softly next to his ear.

"You're doing very well. Just stay calm and quiet and act normally, like you're doing."

House nodded silently, his eyes downcast. He jumped slightly when Wilson's hand tightened, and his tone took on a sharp, warning edge.

"And I don't want to see any more moments of uncertainty like that one back there with your mom. You're going to keep your mouth shut, so I don't have to hurt anyone you care about – aren't you, House?"

House closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard, nodding in hurried, submissive agreement. Wilson watched him for any sign of deception, relenting in reluctant satisfaction when he saw no indication that House was anything less than sincere.

"Good. Now quiet… the service is about to start."

Several curious glances were cast in their direction as the funeral goers found their seats and readied for the service to begin. Wilson knew that many were probably expecting House to say a few words in honor of his father; many were unaware of his recent "disappearance" and had no reason to think that anything was out of the ordinary. Even House's mother had mentioned on the phone that she would like for her son to give a eulogy.

Wilson had made it quite clear to her that that would not be possible.

As the minister began to speak, Wilson settled back in his seat, allowing himself to relax a little bit. They had made it this far without incident. Maybe everything was going to be all right, after all.

****************************

As the minister spoke about House's father, regaling the assembled mourners with references to his courage and dignity and integrity, House ordinarily would have been focused on the bitter irony of the fact that those traits were not the ones of his father that he knew most intimately. John House had not been anything remotely resembling the loving, expert father and husband the minister was making him out to be.

At the moment, however, House's thoughts were focused elsewhere.

_Wilson's staying so close… watching every move… there's no way I'll get a chance to say anything to anyone… Maybe Cuddy… She seems… suspicious… but…_

He glanced over his shoulder and across the aisle to where Cuddy was sitting, accidentally catching her eye for a moment, due to the fact that her gaze seemed to have already been locked onto him. He held her gaze for a moment before turning around again and facing forward, his eyes lowered in response to the severe, suspicious stare he felt Wilson giving him.

_Can't let him catch me trying to tell her… can't let him hurt anyone because of me…_

His thoughts were a little hazy, not coming together quite as quickly as they would have otherwise, but Wilson had been careful not to overdose him. He had obviously wanted House to seem as normal as possible; and thankfully, House was still enough aware of his surroundings to be able to think with a reasonable amount of logic.

At least, it _would _have been a reasonable amount… had he been anyone else.

As it was, he felt frustrated, limited by his lack of focus and the fine haze that seemed to coat his thoughts, keeping his attempts at planning from ever quite coming together.

_If there was a way to get Mom and Cuddy out of here… _maybe_… maybe it'd be worth it… He only has so many bullets… and he'll kill _me_ eventually if I can't get away. Is my life worth less than these people's, somehow? But… _how_? How can I get their attention and get them out without him catching on?_

Before he knew it, the ceremony was over, and Wilson was gently nudging him to rise from his seat and make his way toward the aisle.

"We'll talk to a few people as briefly as possible, and then make our excuses and go home," he stated quietly. "We won't give anybody a chance to get too curious. They've all seen you; they know you're here, and you're okay. You've met your social obligations, and there's nothing more anyone can ask of you…"

"House… wait a second…"

"Damn it," Wilson muttered under his breath as Cuddy approached them, heading them off at the end of their aisle.

House tensed at Wilson's reaction, but forced a semi-cordial half-smile to his lips, nodding once in greeting.

"Cuddy."

Her tone was hurried and trembling with mingled relief and concern as she reached out a hand to rest on his arm, as if trying to reassure herself that he was really there.

"My God, House, I've been so worried! I'm so glad to see you're all right. You just… _disappeared,_ and… and when I realized you weren't visiting your parents, I just… I didn't know _what_ might have happened to you…"

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine," House assured her, not quite meeting her eyes. "I'm safe. I just… needed a little time to myself, after the… accident. I needed to… to get away for a little while. So that's what I'm doing. You couldn't reach me because… I don't want to be reached right now. I wouldn't even be _here_, if not for… well…"

House shrugged awkwardly, glancing around the room, his head bowed self-consciously.

Cuddy nodded slowly, an expression of sympathy on her face as she studied his expression, her hand running slowly up and down his arm in a gesture of comfort.

"I understand. I just… anything could have happened to you, and no one would have…"

"Wilson knows where I'm staying. I'll be fine," House cut her off abruptly, and a little impatiently, though his words came slurred and with a bit of difficulty. "If you… need to get a hold of me, you can… call him."

Cuddy's brow creased into a troubled frown, and she let out a sigh of resignation. "Right. Of course. Well… as long as you're safe, House. House… I know this is a rough time, but… are you all right? I mean, you sound a little…"

"He's sedated," Wilson explained quietly. "He's taking this kind of hard, so… I gave him a sedative."

Cuddy's frown deepened and she looked to House with surprise. House could well imagine what she was thinking. Over the years, despite his addiction to Vicodin, House had consistently refused any form of medication for mental or emotional symptoms. Anti-depressants had been gently suggested, and not-so-gently rejected, more than once. It only made sense that sedatives would fall into the same category.

Which meant that it _didn't_ make sense for House to consent to take them.

"House… I… can we talk?" she asked hesitantly. "Just for a minute. I really would feel better if I could…"

"No," House snapped, acutely aware of Wilson's invisible disapproval, his silently oppressive presence, watching House's every move. "I don't have time for your impromptu, amateur therapy session. We need to get… get going…"

"House, I'm serious. Just give me a couple of minutes…"

"I said no…" Icy tendrils of fear began to creep through House's veins, his mind able to focus on nothing but Wilson's displeasure as he struggled to find a way to put her off. "Cuddy, just back off. I d-don't need you… well… just don't _need_ you. Period. So get out of my face!"

He lurched unsteadily away from her, leaving her confused and worried and more suspicious than ever. His refusal had been a little _too_ strong to avert her concerns. Ordinarily, House would have been willing to go with her at least for a few minutes, if only to get the chance to later mock her attempts at psychoanalyzing and "helping' him. The note of panic in his voice only served to make matters worse.

Wilson followed after him, just as troubled and concerned as Cuddy.

Or at least… that's how he appeared.

House and Wilson both knew that Wilson was, in reality, quietly furious.

He was just waiting until he could get House alone to show it.


	21. Chapter 21

House braced himself for the worst as Wilson led him out of the main room where the mourners were gathered and into an empty room off to the side. No sooner were they out of sight than Wilson's grasp changed from firm to painful, as he locked the door, then turned to face House, shoving him against the wall, hard.

Wilson raised his hand as if to slap him, and House flinched, drawing back against the wall behind him. Wilson glared at him, visibly struggling with is own fury as he slowly lowered his hand again, shaking his head slightly.

They both knew he couldn't afford to leave a mark on House's face – not until they got home, anyway. At that point, it wouldn't matter how badly bruised House was.

There'd be no one there to see.

For now, however, Wilson had to restrain himself. His hands clutched House's arms with painful force, pinning him against the wall as he leaned in close to his face, his voice low and menacing, every word slow and pronounced.

"You had better get it together, House. Do you understand me?"

House nodded, his words a breathless, shallow whisper. "Yes… yes, Wilson… please…"

"Do you want someone else to get hurt, House? Do you really want someone else's death on your hands?"

House's stomach lurched at the soft, threatening questions, and he shook his head desperately, thinking of his mother and Cuddy and the other innocent people in the next room. "No," he whispered. "Please, Wilson… I'm t-trying… please…"

"Well, you're going to have to try harder. Did you actually think you were _not_ suspicious out there? Because you _were. Very_ suspicious. You're not going to convince anyone that way, so you'd better get focused on making this look right…"

It seemed to be becoming more difficult to process the words in his mind, and House struggled to focus on what Wilson was saying through the drug-induced haze that coated his thoughts. Panic began to creep coldly through him, his body beginning to tremble, as he shook his head again, his eyes submissively downcast.

"I'm sorry, Wilson… I'm sorry, I'll… do better. Please… please, don't…"

Wilson released him with a disgusted hiss, shaking his head in a derisive way that made House's face flush with shame. "So stupid," he muttered. "You are so pathetic. You really are completely helpless, aren't you? If I wasn't here, there's no way you'd be able to pull this off."

_If you weren't here, I wouldn't have to worry about pulling _anything_ off…_

"Hey! Are you even _listening_ to me?" Wilson snapped, smacking his palm against the wall next to House's head.

House flinched, nodding hurriedly. "Yes. I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I'll… I'll do whatever you say…"

"You'd better," Wilson warningly replied. "We've still got to go to the gathering, and your mother and all these people will be there, and you had _better _keep it together and not let on what's going on to anyone, or I promise you you're going to be _very, very_ sorry, House."

"Okay," House assured him, swallowing hard and suppressing a flinch as Wilson roughly grabbed his arm and jerked him toward the door.

************************

Just outside the door, Cuddy scrambled backward in sudden panic, darting into the darkened doorway of the next unoccupied room. Her heart was racing, her mind spinning with the implications of what she'd just heard. She waited in tense apprehension until Wilson's and House's footsteps had faded away before slipping out of the empty room and making her way back toward the chapel, which was now mostly empty.

She needed to think.

Instinct and suspicion had driven her to follow when she'd seen Wilson leading House away from the rest of the mourners. She knew something was wrong; there was something they were keeping from her, and she wanted to know what it was. The door to the room was thankfully quite thin, and with her ear pressed to it, she could clearly make out the words of the two men.

She almost wished she hadn't.

It was deeply disturbing to her – the obvious fear in House's unusually subdued voice, the cold menace in Wilson's words. House was the man who was never afraid of anything, who always risked even the most severe consequences in a never-ending battle to prove that he could not be controlled or dominated.

And yet, Wilson had been berating him, threatening him, and House had not yelled back insults and scathing words at Wilson – hadn't even defended himself. As strange and surreal as the entire scene seemed, House seemed genuinely terrified of Wilson.

She wondered what the secret was that Wilson had so emphatically instructed House to keep to himself. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach told her that it couldn't possibly be anything good. Instinct told her that House was likely in some kind of serious trouble, and as difficult as it was to believe, Wilson appeared to be directly at the heart of it.

She returned to the group and tried to blend in as they began to file out and make their way toward the cemetery. She kept her eye on House and Wilson throughout the brief, simple service, never letting them leave her sight. Once they returned to the funeral parlor for the wake, she lingered, offering her condolences to Mrs. House, and making casual conversation with strangers, as one did at these awful things; but her attention was never far from House and Wilson, who stayed close together throughout the entire affair.

With the exception of their inseparability, there was nothing else that appeared to be suspicious – much to her frustration. She was hoping for something else to indicate what might be going on between them, but she was sorely disappointed. She stayed until everyone began to leave, lingering even past the time when friends closer than her to the House family had left, just hoping for something to help her understand what was going on.

Frustration made her nearly frantic as the crowd began to thin out, leaving only the closest friends and family. She was well aware that once House left the building, he would go back into hiding, and there was no way of knowing how long it would be before she had the chance to talk to him again.

And she simply could not allow that to happen.

Something told her that he was in serious danger, and she couldn't let him slip away into oblivion again without knowing that she had done everything she could to help him.

When she could tastefully put it off no longer, Cuddy said goodbye to Blythe House, then gave a stiff, somewhat awkward farewell to House and Wilson as well. Wilson gave her an apologetic smile as she turned to go, as if House was the one who was irritated by her presence, and he simply couldn't do anything about it.

Cuddy barely managed to conceal her suspicion.

She went to her car, but she did not drive away – not yet. She couldn't just leave, not knowing what was going to happen to House. She had to make sure that he was okay. As she sat there waiting, though she wasn't sure what she was waiting for, an idea began to take shape in her mind.

Her car was parked far enough down the street so as to not be conspicuous, even to someone who would recognize it. She waited until, nearly an hour after the last guests had left, House and Wilson walked out of the funeral parlor in the company of House's mother. Wilson hugged Blythe, and then House hugged her, as they prepared to leave. Cuddy felt her throat constrict slightly as Blythe seemed to hold onto her son much longer than was necessary, as if she was afraid to let him go for fear that he might not come back.

_I know the feeling… Don't worry, I won't let him get far…_

As Blythe went back into the funeral parlor to finish up the business aspect of the funeral with the funeral director, Wilson opened House's door for him, waiting until he got inside and closing it for him as well before going around the car and getting in on the driver's side.

She started her engine, leaving her lights off as Wilson pulled his car out into the street. She waited until he was almost out of sight before turning on her lights and starting after him, gradually allowing herself to catch up a little without making herself conspicuous.

_He rode here with Wilson, so Wilson has to be taking him home. There's no way that Wilson would let him drive in this condition… and I _have_ to know where he's staying. I have to know that I can find him if he's in trouble, or… or…_

Cuddy wasn't sure what exactly she was afraid of. The idea that Wilson might somehow hurt House was preposterous, and she had no idea what else might be going on with House, that Wilson was somehow a party to. She just knew that what she had heard, in combination with the strange behavior she had observed from House, was enough to set off alarms in her mind.

Something was just not right – and she wouldn't have any peace of mind until she knew what it was.

Cuddy realized that, as she had no idea where House was staying, she had no idea how far away it might be. She knew that she could end up driving so far out of her way as to miss work the following morning, or at the very least be terribly exhausted when she _did_ get to work, but she felt that she had no choice.

She just had to _know_.

She was somewhat relieved to find that they were headed back in the general direction of Princeton. About an hour away, Wilson turned onto a smaller highway, leading out into a more rural area. By the time he stopped, by Cuddy's estimation, he had only taken her about a half an hour out of her way.

Cuddy frowned with confusion as Wilson pulled his car into the driveway of a large, unfamiliar house. She drove on by the house, not wanting to draw attention to herself, before turning her lights off and turning around to park a couple of houses down and on the opposite side of the street.

Fortunately, Wilson seemed to have no idea that he'd been followed. Cuddy watched as he got out of the car, wondering why House didn't get out as well. Once again, Wilson walked around the car and opened House's door for him, reaching down to take him by the arm and help him out of the car.

_Where the heck_ are _we? This isn't the new address Wilson left for me… and this doesn't seem like the kind of place House would choose…_

As she sat there wondering, Wilson pushed House against the side of the car, leaning in close to him and speaking in a very intent manner. House flinched away from Wilson, visibly cowed by Wilson's intimidating manner. Cuddy felt all the air rush out of her lungs when Wilson abruptly raised his hand and struck House across the face, hard. Her heart raced with shocked dismay when Wilson grabbed House by the hair and shook him, then jerked him toward the front door.

She sat there for a few moments in overwhelming shock, trying to reconcile the impossible images her eyes had just taken in with everything she'd ever thought she knew about the relationship between House and Wilson, and what Wilson was capable of doing.

She considered just walking up to the door and knocking, asking Wilson what was going on; but she was fairly certain that he would just lie to her. And if he did, there was little that she could do about it. She couldn't very well contact the authorities, knowing that House would likely deny that anything had happened. He was a grown man, and fully capable of defending himself.

_When he's not drugged out of his head and not thinking clearly with grief… _

She frowned, frustrated, unable to decide what was the best course of action. She thought her best chance of getting the truth about the situation was to talk to House without Wilson present. She stayed silent, warily watching as Wilson came out of the house again a few minutes later, only to open the trunk and take out his and House's bags and take them inside.

_How can I manage to get House alone? Wilson wouldn't leave his side for a second tonight…_

_But… he has to go to work at some point, doesn't he?_

Cuddy started her car, and pulled out into the street again, a new plan beginning to form in her mind. She wasn't going to just let this go and leave House to whatever trouble he had managed to get in this time.

She was leaving for the night… but she was not leaving for long.


	22. Chapter 22

"Mercy Medical Center, how may I direct your call?"

Cuddy put on her most pleasant voice, smiling into the phone as she responded to the bored-sounding woman who'd answered the phone. "Yes, Dr. James Wilson, please?"

The receptionist's tone didn't change as she replied without hesitation. "Dr. Wilson is out for the day. Can I take a message for him?"

Cuddy frowned, troubled by that news. In her experience, Wilson never missed work unless he was terribly ill or had an extreme emergency. He had seemed fine the day before at the funeral; and any emergency she could think of that might have come up could not possibly be good for House. She made no effort to hide her distraction as she quickly made her excuses to get off the phone.

"No, it's not important. I'll just… call him at home. Thank you."

An unsettled feeling came over Cuddy as she tried to decide what course of action to pursue next. If Wilson was at home, then it would do her no good to go and see House. She had a feeling that whatever secret they were keeping, she'd have no luck in getting it out of either of them if they were together.

_I'll just wait and call again tomorrow. He has to go back to work at some point, and when he does, that's when I'll go see House and make sure he's okay. I haven't taken a personal day in five years; I think I'm entitled to a "personal emergency" by now._

She tried to put her concerns out of her mind for the moment and focus on her work, though it was difficult to think of anything besides the disturbing things she had seen and heard the day before.

_How bad could it be?_ she reasoned, trying to reassure herself. _This is_ Wilson_. I don't really know what I saw… what was going on between them. House probably said or did something ridiculously offensive, and a single blow in a heated moment – is it really such a big deal? Wilson would never hurt House _too_ badly… would he?_

But she knew better.

She knew that the threatening words she had heard, the inexplicable fear in House's voice and actions, spoke of more than just a single blow between two male friends in a moment of anger.

_Maybe there's something else about the situation… something I missed. There has to be some kind of explanation for it. Wilson wouldn't just hurt him for no reason. I just have to find the reason…_

She sighed, closing her eyes as she struggled to focus.

_I just… have to make sure he's okay…_

She picked up her pen and began to work again, focusing on a single determination.

… _and I will. Tomorrow._

*******************************

House spent the night following his father's funeral in misery.

After he brought in their luggage, Wilson returned to the basement and stripped House of the clothes he'd allowed him during the funeral. House couldn't seem to hold back a pleading stream of babbled explanations and promises to do better as Wilson chained him on his knees with his hands behind his back. Wilson didn't speak a single word until he had finished securing House's bonds.

Then, Wilson drew back his fist and backhanded him hard.

"When are you going to learn," he hissed out, his voice rising in volume and intensity until it became a roar of rage, "to keep your _stupid_ mouth _freakin' shut_!"

House flinched as Wilson grabbed him by the hair, shaking his head, trembling as he struggled to get out an apology. "I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Wilson, please… please don't…"

Wilson pitilessly struck him again, snarling, "_Shut up_!"

House did his best to stay quiet and still as Wilson shoved the gag into his mouth and tied the blindfold over his eyes, then jerked his head back by the hair, leaning in close so that House could feel the damp heat of his shaky, erratic breath against his ear.

"You're going to learn that you are _not_ in control here, House! You will not decide what I do or don't do to you. If I say keep your mouth shut, you'll keep your damn mouth shut, do you understand me?"

House nodded hurriedly, desperately, relieved and yet bereft when Wilson released him abruptly and stalked toward the basement stairs.

He was terribly confused, his thoughts swirling in circles as he tried to make sense of everything that had happened to him that day. He'd told himself he'd look for a chance to tell someone what was happening, that there was no way he'd allow himself to be brought back to this basement prison. In fact, he was fairly certain that there had been a time or two when Wilson was a little distracted and he might have been able to get a few words out to Cuddy or his mother.

And yet… he hadn't.

He'd been too afraid.

He'd simply been quiet and cooperative and done his best to stick to the story Wilson had given him. He'd played his part so well that no one had caught on to the idea that anything might be out of the ordinary. He'd done everything in his power to keep Wilson happy and keep anyone from getting hurt.

Despite all his efforts, Wilson had still ended up furious with him.

_Gotta do better… gotta just do what he wants, keep him from getting angry… gotta be good…_

Even as the desperate thoughts circled through his mind, House was horrified by them, aware of what such a mindset said about his mental state. He was trying so hard to maintain his sense of self-awareness, trying not to fall prey to the mind games Wilson was playing with him.

And he was failing.

*********************************

House barely slept that night.

Wilson had chained his wrists so tightly, so near to the floor, that it was impossible for him to move from the kneeling position in which he had been left. By morning, his back, his arms, and especially his thigh were screaming in anguished protest at their mistreatment. He was hungry and thirsty, trembling with pain and exhaustion.

When he heard Wilson's footsteps on the stairs, House's entire body clenched in preparation for more punishment. He flinched when Wilson stopped beside him, and he felt Wilson's hand move toward his face; but he dared not pull away as Wilson slowly crouched beside him, one hand running gently through his sweat-dampened hair. Wilson's voice was soft, calm and patient as he asked a question that made House's stomach drop.

"Have we learned our lesson, House?"

House wasn't exactly sure what lesson he was supposed to have learned. He knew by Wilson's reactions that he had somehow failed him tremendously, but he had no idea how he had done so. He had done his best to do what Wilson wanted.

It didn't matter.

He nodded deeply, his head lowered in submission, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"No thanks to you and your pathetic failure to do even the most simple things I asked of you," Wilson explained in a soft, even voice, "no one caught on to anything suspicious yesterday. I managed a little bit of damage control, and was able to explain away your behavior so that no one was any the wiser."

House was not surprised by that, but his heart still sank with disappointment at the words. He remained tense, terrified by Wilson's continued displeasure with whatever unknown mistakes he had made. Wilson was quiet for a long moment, his hand stilling before he finally spoke again, his tone gentle and compassionate.

"I know you tried, House. I know you didn't mean to screw it up. You never do."

House felt his face flush with shame at the words, and he lowered his head further, swallowing back a sob.

Wilson's voice was unsettlingly distant, tinged with a frightening, quiet sort of madness as he continued. "Don't worry, House. It's okay. I forgive you. I'm not mad, okay? You did your best… even if it wasn't good enough. That just means… you won't be going anywhere else for a while. You have to understand – I have to keep you safe. I have to protect you, and I will… no matter what it takes. Do you understand?"

House nodded again, a trapped feeling of despair overwhelming him with those words. His opportunity for escape had come and gone, and as he had feared, he would not get another one. Wilson was not going to give him the chance to disappoint him again. No, he was going to spend the rest of his existence in this basement, at the mercy of a madman who could turn terrifyingly violent without a moment's notice.

His best chance was to try to keep the madman happy – to avoid further punishment.

Wilson gently removed the blindfold from his eyes, laying it aside, and House blinked against the bright morning light drifting through his small window, angled just so as to fall upon his face. He flinched slightly, drawing in a soft, sharp breath when the backs of Wilson's fingers brushed against his cheek, then reached around behind his head to unfasten the gag.

"Look at me."

House dared not disobey, eyes wide and terrified as he met Wilson's tranquil, smiling gaze.

"You know that I love you, right? And I'll never let anything hurt you?"

House nodded, holding Wilson's gaze as he swallowed hard then choked out a hoarse whisper. "Y-yes…"

"You know I have no other choice. You were too reckless, left to your own devices – too much of a danger to yourself. I had to take these drastic measures. If I hadn't – you probably wouldn't even be alive by now. You know that… right?"

There was a quiet, troubled concern in Wilson's eyes, and House tried to imagine what the other man might be thinking. It was difficult to rationalize the thoughts of someone who'd lost his grip on sanity; but it almost seemed as if Wilson was seeking reassurance of his own choices, affirmation that he was doing the right thing.

House didn't want to give it to him, but he didn't dare give him anything less.

"I-I know," he whispered, nodding slowly, eyes downcast. "I know, Wilson." He hesitated a moment, tears welling in his eyes as he choked out pleading words. "I… I'm sorry. I… I didn't mean to… to let you down. I… I t-tried…"

"I know you did, House," Wilson assured him gently, stroking his face with the tenderness of a lover, no traces of violence in the gesture now.

House hated himself for leaning into the rare comfort of that touch.

"I know you don't mean to upset me… to do things to make me angry. And… I don't like to be angry with you. But… we're both going to try harder, aren't we?"

House nodded in automatic, eager response to the leading question, willing to agree to anything that would keep Wilson satisfied and calm.

"We're not going to let this keep happening. We're going to make things work from now on… aren't we?"

"Yes," House whispered, a fervent promise in his voice. "I-I'll do whatever you want me to do, Wilson. I swear it. I won't… I won't give you any more reason to… to not trust me. I'll do whatever you say…"

Wilson smiled, tears forming in his eyes, clearly pleased with House's words. "I know you will." He nodded, giving House's face one last gentle caress before reaching behind him to unchain his wrists. "I know you'll earn my trust again, House… in time."

House remained utterly pliant and passive as Wilson maneuvered him onto his feet, even biting back the cry of pain that came with the movement to his stiff, sore right leg. Wilson noticed his pain anyway, murmuring soothingly to him as he supported him with an arm under his shoulders, leading him slowly and patiently toward the stairs, no doubt for a much-needed bath.

Grateful for that small luxury, anticipating the soothing feeling of the hot water on his sore muscles, House never allowed the idea of escape to cross his mind.

At this point, it was all he could do to figure out how to _survive_.


	23. Chapter 23

"Mercy Medical Center, how may I direct your call?"

"Yes, is Dr. James Wilson in today?" Cuddy kept her tone calm and neutral, bracing herself to hear that Wilson was out for the day again.

"He is. May I tell him who's calling?"

Relief flooded through her as Cuddy hurried to give the receptionist an answer she thought would keep her from becoming suspicious and arousing Wilson's suspicion as well.

"No, no thank you. I have an appointment. I just called yesterday with a question and he was out sick, so I just wanted to make sure he was in. I'll be by this afternoon."

"May I ask your…"

"Thank you."

Cuddy cut the receptionist off before she could finish her question, hanging up the phone quickly and rising to her feet. She called her own assistant and claimed that she had a personal emergency and would be out for the rest of the day, and asked her to forward only the very most important calls to her cell phone.

She got into her car, her hands trembling as she made her way back to the address where she had left House and Wilson two days earlier. Along the way, she found herself wondering what she was doing, whether or not this was going to do any good. So Wilson wasn't there. She had no guarantee that House _would_ be there.

_This could be a pointless two hour drive, for no good reason…_

Her hands tightened on the wheel as she turned onto the exit ramp, her lips set in taut determination.

… _or it could be the only way that I can help House… assuming he actually _needs _help…_

Despite her attempts at reassuring herself from her own fears, Cuddy knew deep down that there was really little doubt as to whether or not House needed help. She could not forget the fear in his voice as he had responded to Wilson's quiet threats, or the way he had flinched in anticipation when Wilson had raised his hand to strike him – almost as if he was already expecting the blow.

No, House was in serious trouble of some kind, and she would not rest until she had done what she could to help him.

If only she had some idea of what that might be.

Once she reached the address and the house she'd seen the night of the funeral, she wasn't really sure what to do next. She had no key, no way of legitimately entering the house on her own; and she was fairly certain that House would not answer the door for her if she knocked.

She knocked anyway.

There was no answer, but she knew better than to think that meant that House was not there.

She knocked again, louder, waiting on the porch in jittery, self-conscious silence for a few moments, before hesitantly making her way around to the rear of the house in search of another door – one which might be unlocked. When she found the back door locked, she stood there for a few moments beside the back steps, drawing in a shaky breath and letting it out in an impatient sigh as she tried to figure out what to do next.

*****************************

Chained in the basement as usual, gagged but not blindfolded for the duration of Wilson's shift at the hospital, House had clearly heard the knocking on the back door of the house, which seemed to be directly above his basement prison. He had frozen, his heart lurching with mingled excitement and alarm at the sound.

In all the long weeks he had been here, no one had knocked on Wilson's door.

Was it possible that someone was looking for him?

As House stared at the tiny rectangle of light that shone through his window, he blinked, startled, as a shadow passed in front of it. His heart began to race, his hands instinctively straining against the chains that held them behind his back, as he tried to think of a way to get the person's attention.

He struggled to cry out past the thick gag that filled his mouth, frustrated when only a soft, muffled moan escaped his lips, far too quiet to be heard through the cement walls of the basement. He jerked his hands against the chains again, hopelessly, heedless of the pain of his raw wrists jarred against the unyielding metal.

_Come on… come on, I'm_ here… _please, someone, hear me!_

********************************

Cuddy started to walk away from the door, but stopped when she thought she heard a soft sound. She froze, wide eyes turned back toward the still, silent door. Perhaps there _was_ someone inside, just waiting for her to go away so they could show themselves.

She frowned, equal parts worried and irritated at that prospect.

She tried the door handle again, though she knew it'd be locked, then knocked on the door again insistently.

"Hello?" she called out into the silence, her voice loud and demanding. It softened slightly, tinged with concern as she added, "House?"

**************************

_Cuddy!_

House recognized her voice, and felt a surge of hope with the realization that she must have picked up on something out of the ordinary at the funeral. He'd done his best to act as normal as possible, but apparently she'd noticed something despite his efforts.

Hope was swiftly replaced, however, by an overwhelming fear for her safety, if Wilson should happen to come home and find her here. He knew that Wilson had not been gone all that long and would still be at work for hours; but it was always possible that he might come home on his lunch break. House shuddered to think what he would do to Cuddy if he thought she had figured out his dark secret.

Wilson had already proven that he would go to any lengths necessary to keep it.

_But… if you can get her attention… if she can get you out of here before he comes back… then you'll _both _be safe…_

He tried again to scream, tearing his already raw throat with the effort, but only managing to get out the barest of sounds. He raised his bound wrists and lowered them again and again, banging the chains against the cement floor in an attempt to make as much noise as possible. He had to get Cuddy's attention before she gave up and went away.

She was his only chance.

If he couldn't get her to help him… he knew he'd be there forever, without any hope of escape.

He hit his chains as hard as he could against the floor in desperation, a strangled, guttural moan falling from his lips as he fought for his freedom in the only way that was left to him.

_Come on, Cuddy, please… please hear me… please know that I'm here…_

******************************

Cuddy listened closely at the door after calling out House's name, and this time she was sure that she'd heard something – some kind of movement inside the house.

_Maybe he's hurt. Maybe he_ can't _get to the door. Maybe he wants to let me in, but he's not able to…_

_Or maybe he's just being House, and doesn't feel like listening to me worrying about him…_

She hesitated a moment, trying to decide what was the best course of action to take. If House was there and all right, and chose not to answer the door and let her in – wasn't that his right, after all? Did she really have the right to force him to talk to her if he didn't want to do so?

After a moment's consideration, she decided that she really didn't care.

She reached up and took a pin from amidst the pile of hair atop her head, hoping that she could remember what House himself had taught her so many years ago in medical school. She closed her eyes, focusing her attention on what she was doing as she twisted the end of the pin in the keyhole, listening and feeling for the _click_ that would tell her that her efforts had succeeded.

Her chest constricted, her pulse racing as the doorknob abruptly turned under her hand, the door sliding open a few inches.

She was in.

****************************

House froze, his efforts stilled, when he heard slow, even footsteps on the floor above him. His every muscle was taut with nervous tension, his wide eyes fastened on the ceiling above him as he listened to the soft, rhythmic thuds of Cuddy's footsteps as she entered the house.

Hope stirred within him, though he barely dared to allow it. His dark knowledge of the lengths to which Wilson had gone to conceal his presence in this house ate away at his hopes, as he remembered that Cuddy was not likely to find much in Wilson's home that she would find suspicious – and the basement door was always kept locked.

Cuddy was there, but it remained to be seen whether she would be able to help him, or only end up getting herself into danger.

_She hasn't even found me yet…_

***************************

"House? Are you here?"

Cuddy cautiously made her way through the house, carefully observing the apparently innocent normality of her surroundings. Everything seemed to be in order – a comfortable living room, kitchen, and single bedroom, all arranged for one.

_Is this Wilson's place… or House's?_

A closer inspection revealed a shelf of cook books in the kitchen, a well-stocked refrigerator, and a collection of magazines in the living room that House would not have been caught dead reading.

_So… Wilson's, then… but… what about House?_

Cuddy sat down slowly on the sofa, feeling lost and confused and uncertain. Had she misinterpreted the entire situation? Was House long gone already, back to whatever secret hiding place in which he had spent the last couple of months? She had no idea what to do next, her sorrowful eyes gazing dully around the living room.

Her stomach dropped, everything seeming to freeze around her, as her gaze fell upon something that made the peaceful normality of the entire scene seem like a dark and ugly lie. In the corner of the room, in a tall, narrow basket, nestled among several umbrellas, was an item that definitely did not belong there, especially if House was not there.

House's cane.

_Why is it here, if House isn't? Why would he leave it? He wouldn't go anywhere without it…_

_Something is very wrong here…_

She rose and continued searching through the house, looking for any other signs that House might be staying here, or have been here recently, but found nothing else as troubling as the abandoned cane in the corner. She sighed with weary frustration, stopping in the hallway, raising a hand to cover her face.

She knew there was something wrong, but she didn't know what she could do about it without anything more to go on. She could wait and confront Wilson, but she had a feeling that he wouldn't be willing to tell her much – and she had the nagging suspicion that anything he _did_ tell her would not necessarily be trustworthy information at this point.

She glanced around the hallway at the three closed doors to which it led, mentally cataloguing what she'd already found.

_Bedroom… bathroom… what's that third door?_

She frowned, her interest piqued when she noticed that it was locked from the outside, with a padlock and a chain. She had assumed before that it was nothing more than a closet – but what might Wilson be hiding in a closet, that he'd feel the need to protect it so carefully?

Determination in her eyes, Cuddy took the hairpin from her pocket again, hoping that this lock would prove as easy to pick as the last.


	24. Chapter 24

Cuddy frowned with concentration as she tried to work the padlock on the mysterious door open with only the use of a hairpin. It was more difficult than she had anticipated, and becoming more and more frustrating with every minute that passed by. She was about to give up, when she suddenly froze at an ominous sound from just outside the house.

A car had just pulled into the driveway.

Panic seized her, and Cuddy abandoned her task, rushing back toward the back door through which she had entered. Her heart pounded with an overwhelming, if possibly unfounded, feeling of terror. She wasn't sure exactly what she was afraid of; she just knew that she _could not_ allow herself to be caught here, in Wilson's house, when he was not home.

_Breaking and entering charges are reason enough,_ she reminded herself. But she knew she wasn't afraid of legal charges. As difficult as it was to understand and accept, she knew the troubling truth.

She was afraid of _Wilson_.

Cuddy slipped out the back door, locking it and pulling it quietly shut behind her. She crouched down against the side of the house, trying to catch her breath and keep silent as she listened closely for some indication of where Wilson might be at that moment. She didn't dare go around the house and toward her car until he had gone inside.

_He can't possibly be home for any longer than a lunch hour… and it's not very likely that he'd come back here during that time…_ she silently reassured herself, swallowing to moisten her dry mouth and throat. _My car's parked down the street, so if I just stay low and quiet until I'm sure it's safe, then there's no reason why he should ever know I was here…_

She felt ridiculous, huddled down beside the back steps, her back against the wall of the house, her expensive suit probably acquiring grass stains while she hid from her former employee. Somehow, however, she knew that it was a necessary thing for her to hide from him. She was breathless, trying to control the mounting fear that came with the very thought of Wilson finding her here.

She held her breath as she heard the car door open and then shut, followed a few seconds later by the sound of the front door as well. She waited, thinking that if she could only give Wilson a few minutes to get inside – and hopefully away from the windows – she might be able to make a dash for her car down the street.

As she waited, however, her gaze fell on a tiny basement window in the wall against which she was leaning, just a few inches above ground level.

_The basement! Maybe _that's_ what that door leads to!_

Curiosity got the better of her, as she reasoned that as long as she was stuck there hiding anyway, it wouldn't hurt to see if she could catch a peek inside through the window. She leaned back against the wall, trying her best to stay out of sight while still trying to get a good view of what it concealed.

*******************************

The sound of the front door opening upstairs was quite possibly the most terrifying sound House had ever heard. Cuddy's caution in closing the rear door after her had served to leave House believing that she was still inside, and dreading the consequences for her – and maybe for him, too – when Wilson found her there.

He listened closely for the sounds of a confrontation, his body taut and trembling as he tried to keep still and silent, straining to make out even the slightest sound from upstairs – but there was nothing. As he heard the basement door being unlocked, then saw Wilson's feet as he descended the stairs, House braced himself for the worst, his mind racing with questions.

Where was Cuddy? Was she still in the house? Had she hidden before Wilson could find her? Or had Wilson simply managed to incapacitate her so quickly and efficiently that he hadn't heard anything? He studied Wilson's face closely as he approached, looking for some sign of whether or not Wilson even knew she had been there at all.

No such sign was forthcoming.

House quickly looked down as Wilson reached him, unwilling to draw any undue attention toward him. The last thing he wanted was to give Wilson a reason to be suspicious if he wasn't already.

Wilson was carrying a brown paper bag from a fast food restaurant, which he set on the floor within House's reach, before unfastening one of his wrists and taking a step backward.

"There you go," he said in a weary, vaguely impatient tone. "Lunch. I'm sorry it's not better. I didn't have time to cook anything."

"It's fine," House assured him in a quiet, subdued voice, as he took the burger and fries out of the bag and started eating. He hesitated before adding softly, "Thank you."

Wilson stood there for a few moments, just watching House eat; and House was acutely aware of his scrutiny, wondering why he was staring, what he might be thinking.

_How much does he know?  
_

The silent, focused attention alone was enough to make House jumpy and self-conscious, and he tried not to look at Wilson, afraid that his fears would show all too clearly in his face. He focused on his food, keeping his eyes downcast, hoping that Wilson wouldn't notice that anything was out of the ordinary, and would go on his way back to work without incident.

"House…" Wilson's tone was slightly suspicious when at last he spoke, and House braced himself for the worst. "… is something wrong?"

House swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his heart pounding as he fought the almost irresistible impulse to look toward his window. It was merely self-comfort at this point; that tiny window had come to represent every last shred of hope that still lingered in House's heart and mind. In this instance, however, such a glance could serve to place very dangerous ideas in Wilson's head.

House shook his head emphatically, his words coming out in a hoarse whisper. "No. Everything's f-fine. Why would you think…?"

The words broke off in a muffled whimper as Wilson abruptly moved in closer, violating his personal space to grab his face in a rough grasp and force his head up to meet Wilson's narrowed, suspicious eyes. He studied House's face intently for a long moment, and House felt the remnants of his resolve crumbling under the pressure, his insides quaking as the impulse came over him to just confess, just tell Wilson everything because he already knew anyway and he was going to be so angry with him for not telling the truth…

"You're not trying to hide something from me, are you, House?" Wilson's voice was soft, chillingly controlled, his hand like a steel vise biting into House's bruised sensitive skin. "You know better than to do something that stupid… don't you?"

"N-no," House stammered out in a breathless whisper, fighting off panic. "No, I'm not… I w-wouldn't…" Then, almost as an after thought, barely over a breath, "… _please_, Wilson…"

There was a very tense, terrifying moment when House thought that it could go either way. Wilson could believe him and accept his words and go back to work none the wiser – or Wilson could already know the truth and be playing games with his mind, deliberately trapping him to catch him off guard and gain the excuse to reinforce his power over him.

Finally, Wilson released him with a dismissive wave of his hand toward what was left of House's lunch. "Go ahead, finish eating. I have to go back to work."

House hurriedly finished his sandwich and fries, then drained the soda, knowing that he'd have nothing else to drink for the next four hours. Wilson then unchained him and led him up the stairs to use the bathroom. The entire trip upstairs, House held his breath, unsure what he'd see when they reached the upper floor. Was Cuddy still hiding somewhere in the house? Where had she gone? Was she all right, or had Wilson caught her and done something to her already?

To his surprise and relief, there was no sign that Cuddy had ever been in the house at all, at least that he could tell. Wilson let him use the bathroom, then took him back down to the basement and chained him up again, promising to return in a few hours. House shook with tension and dread as he listened to Wilson's footsteps upstairs; and that tension released itself in a violent tremor as he heard the front door finally close, and the sound of Wilson's engine starting in the driveway.

*****************************

Cuddy crouched beside the tiny window, eyes wide as she watched Wilson finally leave the basement, leaving House chained on his knees on the floor as he had been when she'd first seen him there.

She still couldn't believe she had seen it at all.

It was like something out of a horror movie, not something that could actually exist in reality. Wilson, keeping House chained as a prisoner in his basement, for – who knew how long? It simply wasn't possible.

Except for the fact that it obviously was.

Her heart was pounding in her throat, her breath quickened with fear as she rose to her feet, trying to make her mind stop spinning long enough to figure out what to do. It was difficult to focus, however, amid the swirling question that overwhelmed her thoughts.

_This just doesn't make sense. Why would Wilson do a thing like this? How has he managed to keep it from everyone for so long? I _just saw_ House at the funeral; why would he allow this to happen? Why didn't he say something to me – to someone? _

But she knew the only way to gain the answers to those questions was to help House, to get him out of there. She waited quietly, listening as she heard the sound of Wilson's car door opening and closing, and his engine starting up. She waited in tense silence for the sound of its backing down the driveway, eager for Wilson to leave so she could go back inside and get House out.

Impatience mounted as Wilson's car continued to idle, without any sound. There were any number of things he might be doing in the car before leaving – making a phone call, or looking at a patient file, or anything – but Cuddy's irritation rose as she waited, tapping her foot against the ground, wanting to be sure that Wilson was really gone before she made her move.

She crouched down again, glancing through the tiny window, her heart aching at the sight of House kneeling on the cold, stone floor, bound and helpless and visibly trembling. Her chest tightened, tears threatening, as she thought of how painful such a position had to be for his damaged leg.

_How is Wilson capable of this? How is he capable of this, and I never saw it?_

"Hey! What are you doing here?"

It was Wilson's usual voice, calmly curious and tinged with amusement, but Cuddy still felt a chill of fear trickling down her spine at the sound behind her. She spun around to face him, eyes wide, knowing she was probably disheveled and totally obvious about how freaked out she was.

The cool smile on Wilson's face was deeply unsettling, as he glanced between her and the tiny window through which she'd been looking. He shook his head slightly, giving her a disarmingly questioning look.

"Is there... something I can help you with?"


	25. Chapter 25

"Can I help you with something?"

Cuddy slowly straightened to her feet, wide eyes locked onto Wilson's in a trapped, guilty expression. Ironically, Wilson did not appear to feel the least bit of either, despite the fact that he was keeping his best friend a prisoner, chained up in his basement. Wilson was giving her that familiar, disarming smile she had come to know so well during the years he had spent working for her.

_And how long has it been nothing more than a lie?_

She glanced to the side at the fence that seemed to dissect the house, separating the front yard from the back yard. There was a gate just a few yards away, through which she could make her escape and get to her car – if it was unlocked. There was also the back door, just a few short steps away. If she could get through it and lock Wilson out, she might be able to make it out through the front door before he could get to her.

_But if he just goes around to the front door, he'll beat me there for sure, and then I'll be trapped inside… _

She put on her most pleasant smile, just in case there was still a chance of slipping away without his trying to stop her.

_Maybe he didn't see me looking… maybe I can convince him…_

She took a cautious, backward step toward the fence as she spoke in what she hoped was a calm, casual tone. "I was looking for you," she explained. "I saw your car, but you… you didn't answer the front door, so I came around back."

Wilson returned her calm smile, though his was cold and frightening. "Funny. I didn't hear you knock. On _either _door."

Cuddy took another, more obvious step toward the gate as Wilson stepped toward her. Her heart sank as she noted his wider strides bringing him nearer to the gate than she was. His smile took on a knowing air, and she knew that he was deliberately blocking her path. She took another tentative step, then stopped, spinning around to face him when Wilson moved directly between her and the gate.

"I _did_ knock," she insisted, her voice trembling despite her desperate attempt to keep it calm and steady. "I don't know, maybe you were busy inside. Were you running the water, or watching television, or…? Something? Because I knocked, and you didn't answer, so…"

She was babbling. She knew she was, and she knew that _he _knew as well.

She was trying so hard to make him believe that she'd seen nothing, that everything was normal; but deep down, Cuddy knew that it was already far too late for that. There was a predatory gleam in his Wilson's eyes as he took a step backward, bracing his back against the gate – blocking her in.

"No, I wasn't," he informed her softly. "I would have heard you… _if_ you'd knocked."

Her heart hammering in her chest, her mind screaming at her to somehow escape, Cuddy stumbled backward toward the back door, the only route to safety left to her, as she continued talking, trying desperately to appease Wilson… or perhaps just to distract him.

"I just… needed to talk to you about something, but… but now I… can't seem to remember, so… I'll just go…"

Wilson advanced on her too quickly for her to escape, catching her at the base of the steps, taking hold of her arms in a grasp that was firm and unyielding, yet surprisingly gentle. There was something regretful and resigned in his dark eyes as he gave her a sad smile and spoke softly.

"I think you know I can't let you do that."

She stared up at him, still disbelieving that this was really _Wilson,_ standing there so calm and controlled, yet holding onto her and refusing to let her leave. She shook her head in confusion, the useless pretense falling away as she spoke in a hushed, horrified tone.

"What's happened to you? I… I don't understand…"

Wilson's smile faded into a solemn, troubled expression, his hands tightening slightly on her arms as he shook his head. "There's no way you could possibly understand this." He hesitated, biting his lower lip with the first trace of uncertainty she had seen in him yet, as he looked away with a frustrated frown. "I… I'm doing what I _have_ to do. To protect him."

In hindsight, she knew it was not wise. At the moment, she couldn't help it.

She laughed.

"_Protect him_?" she echoed, a brittle, disbelieving sound in her voice. "He's chained up on his knees in your basement! Have you even thought for a _second_ about what that's doing to his leg? He had an infarction before; what if he has another one? Have you even _considered _the circulatory problems you might be creating by keeping him there like that? You can't just…"

She was startled to silence by pain as Wilson abruptly released one arm, just to strike her across the face in furious frustration. "Stop it!" he hissed in restrained rage. "Just shut up! You don't understand!"

He jerked her roughly toward the back door, his former gentleness and sympathy vanishing into defensive fury. Well aware that once he got her through that door, her chances of escape would be dramatically reduced, Cuddy let out a scream as she struggled to break his grip, in the process causing him to lose his balance so that they both toppled to the ground.

Alarmed, Wilson tried to get a hand over her mouth, tried to turn her over so that he could get a better grip on her; but Cuddy was not willing to go quietly. She fought him with all her strength, calling out for help as she did. Wilson tried to focus on keeping her silent, clearly afraid of what might happen if she managed to draw the attention of his neighbors.

And that gave her the opening she needed.

Cuddy brought a knee up sharply between Wilson's legs, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction when he let out a groan of pain and doubled over, losing his grip on her completely. She shoved him off her with a great effort, scrambling to her feet and racing for the gate. It was indeed locked, but Wilson was still struggling just to get to his knees, moaning as he clutched at his injured genitals with both hands.

Cuddy ran for the back door, rushing through the house and toward the front door. She paused in the hallway, stricken with sudden, terrified indecision. The basement door she had tried to open before was chained shut once more, and she knew it would take her longer than she had to get it open. Still, she couldn't resist the impulse to rush to the door and pull at the chains, desperate to get to her friend.

_House… I can't just leave him here…_

She hesitated, glancing back toward the rear of the house. There was no sign of Wilson – yet – but she knew there was no way she could get down to the basement and get House unchained and out before Wilson could catch up to them, no matter how much pain she'd left him in.

_I can't help him if Wilson catches me…_

A wordless moan of fury and pain reached her ears, followed by a chilling roar filled with wild, thoughtless rage. "I'll _kill you! I'll kill you, you stupid bitch_!"

Her heart lurched within her, but the knowledge that Wilson was coming made the painful decision for her. Her cell phone was in the car, and the police could do what she could not. The best thing she could do for House right now was to make sure that she got out of this place alive, and was able to let someone know where he was and what was happening to him.

She raced through the house until she reached the front door, slamming it behind her and running with all her strength down the street to the place where she'd parked her car. Her hands scrabbled clumsily at the door for a panicked moment before she managed to get it open and get inside, immediately locking herself in.

Her wide, fearful eyes looked back toward Wilson's house to see if he was coming after her, but there was no sign of him as she turned on the engine and pulled away from the curb, heading back toward town and the nearest police station. As she drove, she picked up her phone and dialed 9-1-1.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"

Her voice was trembling but impressively controlled as she gave the operator the address where she had found House, and tried to be reasonably coherent in telling her what she had discovered. It was only once she had hung up the phone that she realized there were tears rolling down her face.

_Oh, House… I'm so sorry… but I'm not abandoning you… I'll get you out of there, I promise…_

***************************

House heard the sounds of screaming from outside the house, though it was difficult to make out _who_ exactly was screaming. He listened to the sound of racing footsteps across the floor above him – and then those footsteps suddenly went still. When he heard the frantic rattling of the door above him, House's heart sank. Despite his desperate desire to be free of this place, he knew that Cuddy would not be able to help him.

_No, don't, just go, damn it, just_ go!

As if she had somehow heard him, the sound suddenly stopped. A few moments later, however, House heard Wilson's furious voice, heard louder footsteps making their way across the same floor Cuddy had just crossed. He held his breath, dread filling him as he waited for the outcome he was helpless to affect.

A few moments later, he heard the sound of Wilson's key in the lock upstairs, and froze with fear, his mouth dry and his heart racing. Wilson's footsteps were heavy and erratic as he approached House, then crouched beside him and unfastened the chain that attached his bound wrists to the floor behind him. With one hand Wilson roughly tore the blindfold from House's head, as he jerked him to his feet with the other.

Blinking against the sudden brightness, House cringed from Wilson's violent anger, venturing in a shaky, uncertain voice, "Wilson, what… what happened?"

An unexpected blow caught him across the face, knocking him back down to the floor. With dizzying speed, Wilson yanked him back up again, slamming him against the stone wall, painfully smashing his bound hands between it and House's body. House winced as Wilson grabbed his hair, leaning in close to hiss menacingly into his ear.

"You are going to keep your mouth _shut_ until _I_ tell you to open it, is that clear?"

House nodded hurriedly, sick with fear and uncertainty as Wilson shook him slightly and continued.

"One sound out of you and you won't be able to move for a week, do you understand me?"

House nodded again, swallowing hard, struggling against the compulsion to speak, if only to apologize or plead with Wilson. However, despite the urge to do so, he knew that those things would only further infuriate his captor.

He wanted to ask about Cuddy, wanted to make sure she was okay; but he was afraid that asking about her would only bring Wilson's wrath upon him, when Wilson found out that House had known she was there. Perhaps he knew already, and simply hadn't mentioned it yet. Judging by his unwarranted fury and violence with House thus far, that seemed a likely scenario.

Wilson strode quickly to a far corner of the room, picking up a pile of wadded up clothes that House barely recognized as his own anymore. He brought them back to where House stood against the wall, trembling and too terrified to move. Wilson unchained House's wrists before thrusting the clothes into his shaky, numb hands, issuing orders in a harsh, impatient voice.

"Get dressed. Quickly."

House did his best to obey, but his weary, misused limbs were nearly useless after hours bound behind him to the floor. After a few moments, Wilson roughly jerked the clothes away from him and put them on him himself, muttering darkly under his breath in irritation. House did his best to cooperate with Wilson's attempts, terrified of angering him by any perceived resistance.

When House was dressed, Wilson dragged him toward the stairs, being none-too-gentle as he urgently led him up them and toward the front door. His car was parked in the driveway, just a few short yards away, so there was little hope that any of their somewhat distant neighbors would notice anything wrong as Wilson maneuvered him toward it.

Leaving his wrists cuffed behind his back, Wilson fastened House's safety belt across his lap in the passenger side of the car before going around and getting into the driver's seat. His hands were shaking as he started the engine, glancing around him with wary, paranoid eyes before pulling out onto the street.

"We've got to get out of here," was the only explanation he offered as he glanced anxiously into the rearview mirror. "It isn't safe here anymore."


	26. Chapter 26

This was his chance.

He was alone, in public, for the first time since Wilson had taken him. They were at a gas station about an hour from Wilson's house, and Wilson had gone into the gas station to pay. Before leaving town, he'd stopped at an ATM machine and apparently withdrew all the available cash he could from his bank account and credit cards.

Wilson had handcuffed House to the door handle of the car with his hands in front of him. House was fairly certain that even with his hands bound, he could still have managed to get the door open, or at the very least draw someone's attention, if he tried. There were at least three other cars parked outside the station, and two people pumping gas.

All it would take was a moment to let someone know what was happening to him.

_But what if Wilson has the gun? What if he shoots somebody because of me? It won't work. No matter how good the chances look, it won't work, and he'll get us out of here before anyone can do anything, and then when he gets me alone again he'll _kill_ me he'll be so angry…_

Wilson's return to the car broke off House's frantic mental ramblings, and he turned his head away as Wilson got into the driver's seat, desperately hoping that Wilson could not see the guilt on his face, proof of his disloyal, disobedient thoughts and half-formed plans.

As the car pulled out onto the road again, House closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window and trying to shut out the rush of sight and sound that seemed far too much after so long in sensory deprivation. The funeral just days earlier actually made it a little easier for him to deal with, but it was still overwhelming.

At the moment, trying not to think about the opportunity he'd just let slip past him was a sufficient distraction.

_Moron. That was your chance. Are you too far gone to even_ try _anymore?_

House wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

A few hours more down the road, just across the state line, Wilson stopped outside a tiny, nondescript motel. He parked the car before half-turning in his seat to give House an approving smile.

"You've done very well so far today, House. I'm proud of you. I think you're finally starting to get it."

House lowered his eyes, feeling a confusing mixture of relief and pride at Wilson's approval, and shame that said approval meant anything to him at all.

_Get _what? _Broken? Brainwashed? No… please, no…_

"I'll be right back," Wilson informed him in a reassuring voice as he got out of the car. "I can see the car through the front window." He paused, leaning across the seat to roughly grasp House's hair in a grip that was utterly in contrast to the softness of his tone. His dark eyes flashed with something wild and frightening and _just barely_ restrained as he concluded, "Don't disappoint me, House."

House bit his lower lip, his breath quickening with fear, and he shook his head as best he could to indicate his obedience. Satisfied for the moment, Wilson released him and got out of the car. As he disappeared inside, House began the mental struggle for mastery of his own fears, trying to work up the will to do _something, anything_ to try to escape before Wilson came back.

Wilson came back – and House had not so much as attempted to move.

Wilson's beaming smile made House feel sick to his stomach, as his former friend reached over to gently rub the back of his neck in a spontaneous display of affection. He held himself still with an effort, forcing himself not to flinch from Wilson's touch. He never knew anymore whether he was going to receive violence or gentleness from Wilson's hands.

But at the moment, Wilson seemed very pleased with him.

When he had pulled the car around behind the building, a few yards from the door of the room he'd rented, Wilson got out and came around to House's side of the car, opening the door and crouching down to unlock the cuffs.

Wilson was so near to him, House didn't dare look around at his surroundings, though he was desperate to know if anyone was near enough to notice what was going on if he did something to draw attention to them. Of course, there probably wasn't anyone. Wilson would have made sure of that already.

House couldn't resist a surreptitious glance over his shoulder as Wilson led him swiftly toward the door, one hand locked like a vise around his forearm, the other on his shoulder. Although he saw no one around, House considered the option of trying to escape. Though he was sure Wilson had brought it with him, House hadn't glimpsed the gun since they'd gotten into the car. Perhaps it was packed with the few things Wilson had gathered on the way out.

He was bigger than Wilson, and at one point had been stronger. Perhaps some of that strength yet remained, and could help him to overcome his captor if he tried to fight.

Perhaps if he just pulled away from Wilson's grasp and made a break for it… Wilson wouldn't be able to stop him.

But then, they were in the dimly lit little room, and Wilson was locking the door behind them and locking the cuffs back onto his wrists, fastening them around the side handle of the dresser so that House was forced to sit on the floor beside it. He stared at the floor in front of him in weary defeat, despising himself for the weakness that had kept him from trying any of the many options that had crossed his mind.

"House?"

House knew enough by now to immediately respond, looking up at Wilson who was now standing over him. He tried to decide whether or not Wilson would expect him to verbally answer; but before he could make a decision, all thought was driven from his mind in an explosion of pain, as Wilson struck him hard across the face, knocking his head back into the wall behind him.

Not giving him a chance to recover, Wilson grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward, dark eyes blazing with fury as he snarled low and menacing in his face.

"This is all your fault, House. If you hadn't tried to hide it from me that she was there… if you had told me when I first came down with your lunch… then maybe none of this would have happened, and we'd still be safe at home!"

"But I… I didn't know…" House attempted a weak explanation, which was abruptly cut off by another slap.

"Don't you _dare_ lie to me, House," Wilson snapped at him, shaking him. "I _knew _something was off when I talked to you – I asked you about it – and you looked me in the eye and _lied _to me!"

"I-I'm sorry," House stammered, tense and trembling in dread of the next blow, desperate just to appease Wilson before things went any further. "I'm sorry, I… didn't know what to do…"

"Well, you're the big genius, aren't you?" Wilson sneered, the derision in his tone making House's face flush hot with shame. "You're the brilliant doctor who saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives – and yet you can't figure out what to do in a situation like that?" Wilson lowered his voice, his face inches from House's as he added, "Well, Cuddy's one patient that you failed, House. Miserably. Because you made the _wrong call_… she's dead. She's _dead_, because of you!"

House stared at Wilson in stunned horror, barely comprehending the words. He shook his head slowly as Wilson released him and straightened to his feet. He couldn't make sense of what Wilson had told him. It didn't seem to fit with what he remembered of what had happened, but… but how much had he really been able to understand, just from the sounds he'd heard from the basement? And Wilson was crying now, covering his face with his hands as he sat on the foot of the bed, devastated by what had happened… what _House _had allowed to happen…

It was true. It _had_ to be true.

_No… oh, Cuddy… I'm so sorry…_

*******************************

_Oh, House… House, I'm so sorry…_

"I shouldn't have left," Cuddy remarked aloud, aching with regret and worry as she watched the police officers moving around Wilson's house, searching for evidence. "I should have waited, and then I could have followed them when they left…"

"No, you couldn't have, ma'am," the young police officer taking her statement gently corrected her. "Judging by what you've told me, you would probably have been killed if you'd stayed. You definitely did the right thing by leaving and calling us. Don't worry; we'll find them."

Cuddy wished that she could have been sure of that.

When she had left Wilson's house, she had immediately called the police and let them know what she'd seen. The 9-1-1 operator told her to stay on the line until she told her that the police had arrived and secured the area, and that she would tell her when it was safe to return and give the police her statement.

By the time the police arrived at the house, there was nothing to secure.

Wilson and House were long gone.

The first thing that had caught her eye upon walking into the house was House's cane, still where she'd seen it last, next to the front door. Her heart seized up inside her at the thought of House out there somewhere without it, and she felt a fresh rush of fury toward Wilson for having forced him to leave it behind.

_Of course, he wouldn't let him have anything that he could use to defend himself…_

Now, she held the cane in her hands, turning it over and over as she recounted the details of what had happened to the officer. Her worried gaze kept drifting toward a dark spot on the carpet, beyond the coffee table, which the police had surrounded with tape, marking it to be tested later.

Cuddy was already sure what it was.

_It's blood… House's blood…_

"Don't worry, ma'am," the policeman reassured her again when he saw where she was looking. "We'll find your friend in time."

Cuddy wished that she could be as sure.

Her fingers were white-knuckled on the cane as she twisted it around and around, in a manner reminiscent of how House used to play with it when he was deep in the midst of his diagnostic process. She felt a deep ache in her chest, edging up to her throat, and she swallowed hard, blinking away the burning tears that rose in her eyes.

"Ma'am, um… I'm afraid you'd better give that to us," another officer sheepishly informed her, gently reaching to take the cane from her hands. "It… might be evidence."

Cuddy reluctantly relinquished the cane to his grasp, staring after him as he carried it away. It felt like her last link to the man who, though she would rarely have admitted it, was one of her dearest friends.

_Oh, House… please hold on… we'll find you… I promise we'll find you…_


	27. Chapter 27

House's situation over the last few months had been a scary one indeed. He had been kept constantly off his guard, unsure what to expect from Wilson next, what to do in order to prevent more suffering at the hands of his friend. His days and nights were nothing more than a constant struggle to survive, and to keep from losing his mind.

In all that time, he had never been more terrified than he was in this moment.

Wilson's behavior, while never exactly stable lately, had become gradually more and more panicked and erratic. He was pacing back and forth across the floor of the tiny motel room, muttering to himself, shaking his head, trying to work out some problem while thinking aloud. Every few minutes or so, he would stop, alarmed by some imagined sound, rushing to the window or the peep hole in the door and peering out through narrowed, paranoid eyes.

House never heard any of the sounds Wilson thought he heard.

_He's losing it. Completely. _

It occurred to him at one point that he should probably be trying to think of a way to take advantage of that knowledge; but he couldn't seem to focus through the fear for long enough to come up with any sort of logical plan. Every time he had an idea, it was immediately followed by several ideas of how it might go wrong, and what Wilson in this crazed state might do to him in retaliation.

Not that there was much he _could _do, anyway.

He was on the floor beside the dresser, handcuffed to it so that he was unable even to stand. There was really nothing he could do besides sit there and wait to see what Wilson would do next.

Wilson had had the television on all day, alternating it between CNN and a local station. He hadn't left the room even for a moment, despite his frequent trips to the door and windows. He had gone to the bathroom once, but besides that brief period, he had not left House alone at all. Still, most of Wilson's attention at the moment seemed directed toward the television, and not toward House.

House was fairly certain that in a horribly screwed up situation like this, that was probably a good thing.

He was hungry and thirsty, exhausted and increasingly in pain, but dared not protest in any way, or do anything to draw Wilson's attention toward him. By the time the sun began to set, however, the light through the drawn blinds beginning to glow with a reddish tint, House knew that they could not go on like this much longer. Something had to happen to push Wilson into some kind of motion, for better or worse.

And then… something did.

"This is a breaking report coming out of Princeton, New Jersey. Police are on the lookout for this man, Dr. Gregory House, thought to be in the company of one Dr. James Wilson…"

House looked up in alarm toward the television just in time to see Wilson's picture come up on the screen. His stomach lurched, his heart suddenly racing as a sense of dread came over him, and he immediately looked toward Wilson for his reaction as the newscaster continued reporting the story.

"… thought to be a case of abduction. Wilson is considered to be armed and dangerous. Anyone who believes they've seen him should contact their local law enforcement immediately, and should not attempt to approach him or apprehend him on their own. Any such attempts could result in serious harm either to oneself, or the hostage involved…"

"_Hostage_?" Wilson echoed the word in a low, dangerous whisper that sent a shiver of apprehension down House's spine, his fists clenching and unclenching reflexively at his sides. "Is that what they think you are to me? Do they _seriously think_ that I've just, taken you along with me as some kind of _insurance _to keep from getting caught?"

The fury in Wilson's voice gradually built, his pacing quickening as he went on. "I knew they'd say this, I _knew_ no one would understand! I am doing this to _protect _you, and they just don't get it! They're gonna try to send me to prison just for trying to take care of you, and _then_ what's gonna happen to you, huh? Is _anyone _but me even _considering_ that?"

House wasn't sure whether or not Wilson wanted a response to his ranting questions, or how he should answer if he did. The wisest course of action at the moment seemed to be simply keeping his mouth shut. He watched Wilson's pacing with wary eyes, flinching when Wilson rounded on him all at once, closing the distance between them to crouch directly in front of him.

"I'm trying _so hard_," he confessed, frustration evident in his trembling tone. "I'm doing everything I can do to keep you safe, but nothing's working. Everything keeps falling apart, no matter how hard I try."

His words broke off abruptly as he raised a hand to cover his face, his shoulders shaking. House stared at him in bewilderment, stunned to see that Wilson was actually _crying_. The younger man struggled for a few interminable moments, fighting for control of his own emotions, before finally looking up to meet House's eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and tearful, for the moment not betraying any of the violent rage it had carried only minutes earlier.

"What am I supposed to do, House? Just what am I supposed to do?"

House stared at Wilson with wide eyes full of alarm, feeling trapped and uncertain. There was an expectancy on Wilson's face, making it clear that this time, he did indeed expect a response. House's mind raced as he tried to think of what answer he should give his troubled captor – what answer might somehow convince Wilson to give up this dangerous course of action, without enraging him and pushing him to further violence.

"Maybe… maybe we should just… go home," he suggested in a hushed, hesitant voice. "If… if it's no safer here… if the police are coming after us, then… then maybe…"

He flinched when Wilson suddenly stood up straight, glaring down at him through narrowed eyes filled with accusation. "You want me to go to prison, House?" His voice was low and threatening. "Is that it? I told you what happened to Cuddy. And yet you're asking me to go back there and get arrested and spend the rest of my _life_ in prison? Is that what you want?"

"N-no," House hurriedly amended, shaking his head, drawing instinctively back against the wall. "No, Wilson, I didn't mean… please…"

"I _knew _I couldn't trust you, I _knew _it! Why am I even bothering to ask you for advice?" Wilson snarled, fury rising again as he took a menacing step nearer to his captive. "It's your pathetic inability to take care of yourself that's gotten us into this mess in the first place! Why should I bother to listen to you for a _second_?"

House flinched as Wilson leveled a sharp kick at his midsection, biting back a cry of pain at the bruising impact to his ribcage. Wilson's voice had risen to a manic scream of rage as he kicked out at House again and again, punctuating the blows with a fist across House's face.

"This is all your fault! _You _did this to us, House! _You_!" Wilson raged. "You and your irresponsible, reckless, _dangerous _ways! It's your fault that Amber died, and before you were done, you and I would have been dead, too! I've done everything I can to help you, to keep you from _killing_ yourself, and this is how you repay me? By trying to talk me into sending myself to prison?"

House cringed in preparation for the next blow, but nothing could have prepared him for the brutal impact of the hard toe of Wilson's shoe against his weak, damaged thigh. He couldn't even cry out, the pain was so intense. He tried to gasp, but felt like he couldn't breathe, his body curling in on itself in a vain attempt to protect the vulnerable area. Wilson went silent as well, and House was vaguely aware that that could not be a _good_ thing, even through the agony that consumed his thoughts.

When Wilson crouched in front of him again, moving in close, House flinched, his head jerking back against the wall behind him. He raised his bound hands as high as he could in front of him in a pleading, defensive gesture as Wilson knelt down in front of him, reaching out toward his shoulders. He bit back a moan of pain, eyes closed, trembling in dreadful anticipation of whatever Wilson was going to do next.

The last thing he expected was Wilson's tearful apology.

Wilson lowered his head, his brow resting against House's shaking shoulder as he let out a deep, aching sob. He shook his head slowly back and forth, hands gripping the fabric of House' shirt desperately, as if House was the only thing tethering him to some semblance of reality, of _life_.

"I'm sorry," he gasped out, pleadingly. "I'm so sorry… I'm sorry…"

House's mouth was dry, his stomach roiling with the fear of accidentally doing something wrong, some accidental misstep to cause Wilson's mood to shift yet again. "It's okay," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "It's okay…"

"No," Wilson objected, grief-stricken in his regret. "No, it's not. It's not okay."

He looked up, meeting House's eyes with sorrow in his own as he shook his head. "I'm sorry, House. I never… never meant to hurt you. This whole thing was always about making sure you _didn't_ get hurt – but apparently, it was a really bad idea."

House cautiously looked up at Wilson, swallowing hard. He tried not to look too hopeful, not to allow Wilson to see the effect those words had on him. After so long in the midst of this nightmare, House barely dared to imagine that those words might mean what he thought they did.

"Apparently, it doesn't matter what I do. You're still going to be at risk, no matter what. If anything, I've probably put you in greater danger by trying to help you. Dragging you out here to the middle of nowhere, pulling you into the middle of a _manhunt_…"

House could think of a few other ways in which Wilson's methods had led to his harm, but he knew better than to point them out. He relaxed a little when Wilson slowly stood up straight again, resuming his pacing but with much calmer, more measured steps.

"I just don't know what to do anymore. You're right. It's no safer here than anywhere else. I can't protect you anymore." Wilson walked to the bed and sat down beside his open briefcase that was laid out upon it. "I can't keep you safe," he repeated, his voice soft and calm. "But I can't watch you self-destruct, either…"

"Then… I won't," House ventured finally, his voice low to disguise its trembling. He struggled to find the right words, his eyes locked warily onto Wilson's face, as a disconcerting feeling of alarm began to creep in, in response to Wilson's unnatural calm. "I… I've learned from this, Wilson. I know that I was… was making stupid choices, doing dangerous things. I've learned, and I'm going to be so much more careful and responsible and…"

"No, you're not." There was no anger in Wilson's voice or expression as he looked up at House with a sad smile. "It's no use lying to me, House. I know you won't ever change. You're who you are, and you're never going to be anyone else." He paused, soft affection creeping into his tone as he added, "I wouldn't really want you to be."

House waited in silence, having no answer for those words, confused and unsettled by Wilson's strange behavior. He watched as Wilson reached into the briefcase, shuffling things around a bit until he found what he was looking for. When Wilson stood up and began to walk back toward House, the item he'd taken from the briefcase became clearly visible, and House's chest constricted, his stomach dropping with terror.

_The gun…_

"No," Wilson continued with a sad, resigned shake of his head. "There's really only one thing we can do."


	28. Chapter 28

House flinched as the door to the motel room opened, letting in a stream of late afternoon sunlight. Wilson had only been gone for a few minutes – had just stepped out to his car to get his cell phone – but in that time, House had frantically searched for some means of escape. He despaired that he had found none, although he'd had little time, because now he _knew_:

If Wilson had his way, neither of them would leave this room alive.

"Wilson," House attempted in a hoarse, desperate voice, feeling that at this point he had little left to lose. "Don't. No. You… you don't have to do this…"

When Wilson turned his attention toward him, House immediately flinched, expecting the punishment he'd received any time he'd spoken or moved without permission for the last few months; but the look Wilson gave him was sympathetic and sad. His voice was gentle and patient as he argued softly.

"Yes, House. I do." He took the gun from the pocket of his pants, turning it over in his hands in a pensive way. "It's the only way I can finally stop making things worse for us and _actually protect_ you from any future harm… or suffering… or… just _everything_, House. It's the ultimate answer."

"No, Wilson, you're wrong," House insisted in a cautiously soft voice that trembled with dread. "This isn't a solution at all. You're just speeding up the process and skipping all the good parts along with the bad…"

"_What_ good parts, House?" Wilson snapped, his voice rising with emotion, the gun waving wildly, and House drew back against the wall, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the shot. "The constant pain? Your vicodin addiction? The never-ending fear and confusion and uncertainty of never knowing when you're going to come home to find that your _best friend_ has accidentally – or _not _accidentally – killed himself?"

"So your answer is to kill me first?" House's voice was barely audible, his eyes still closed, his heart racing in dreadful anticipation of what could very well be a fatal consequence to his persisting objections. "If _you_ do it – then you don't have to wait around wondering if it's gonna happen? How is that any better?"

"It's better because I _don't_ 'wonder', House," Wilson explained, a sort of defeat in his voice as he sat down on the end of the bed nearest his friend. "I know. There's this… deep down knowledge inside that one of these days… one of those things _will_ happen. You'll overdose on Vicodin, or you'll be driving instead of riding the bus, or _something_… and I'll lose you." He was quiet for a moment before adding in a chillingly soft voice, "At least this way, I don't have to lose you."

"_Life_ is better than the alternative, Wilson, no matter how crappy it is!" House insisted. "Living with the chance that maybe someday down the road we might do something stupid and die is pretty much the human condition! And it's _got_ to be better than the certainty of death." He paused, his voice softening as he added with earnest sincerity, "I know my life's not all that great, Wilson. Neither is yours. But it's got to be better than _nothing_. And… I at least wanna have the chance to find out. I want to _live_."

Wilson let out a harsh laugh filled with bitter sarcasm, throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat, and House flinched as the gun moved with his hand.

"_Now_ you tell me!" Wilson sneered, frustration creeping back into his tone. "When did you decide _that_, House? Huh? Sometime between the overdose and the bus accident?"

House hesitated, but felt the need to challenge Wilson's faulty logic. "That… that accident wasn't my…"

His words broke off in a gasp of alarm as Wilson swiftly crouched in front of him, his free hand closing firmly around the scar on House's thigh. He tried to pull away, but Wilson held him in place, though keeping his grip loose enough that it wasn't quite painful. His voice was frighteningly soft and sympathetic as he continued, his face inches from House's.

"You want to keep going the way you were? In pain? Constantly miserable? Having to get drunk or high just to feel normal for a little while? Just to _not feel_ the misery your life was?" He paused, his grip on House's thigh easing and becoming a caress, his voice lowering to an almost seductive whisper. "Wouldn't it be so much easier just to let it all slip away? For it all to just be _over_?"

For the last several years of his life, House had needed to consciously remind himself of the things for which he continued to go on.

Well… _thing_, really.

Still, when it came down to it, he had never been one to entertain a death wish. When given the choice between life or death, no matter how miserable his had become, House would always choose life. Something was better than nothing. It was a simple fact of reality that he had always believed and lived by.

But now, the choice was being wrenched from his hands, no longer in any way within his control – and he knew better than to think that he could reason with Wilson at this point.

He struggled to maintain control, but could feel the burn of despairing tears behind his eyes, heard the tremor of pleading defeat in his voice. "Wilson… don't. Please don't…" He was reduced to the last option in his meager arsenal – outright pleading for his very life, hoping against hope that Wilson's lingering affection for House would convince him to spare his life.

Wilson raised a gentle hand to stroke across House's cheek in a tender gesture, his voice quiet and heavy with emotion. "Oh, House," he whispered. "Don't you see? I _have _to – for _you_."

House shuddered, his skin crawling where Wilson touched him. Wilson's face fell at his reaction, and he withdrew his hand, but remained close, his tone hushed and intimate as he went on.

"Don't be scared, House. It's gonna be okay," he reassured him gently. "Don't worry. I promise, it won't hurt a bit. One second you'll be here… the next, you won't. It won't hurt when I do it." He was quiet for a moment as he rose to his feet, drawing back the hammer of the pistol in his hand. "And then…" he mused softly, staring down at the weapon. "… it won't hurt _at all_ anymore."

*****************************

Cuddy had gone from Wilson's house immediately to the police station, hoping to hear about it as soon as House and Wilson were found. Hours had passed without any word, but still she lingered in the waiting area, pacing anxiously back and forth.

She took her cell phone out every now and then, considering placing a call to let someone else know what was going on. She had claimed a personal emergency at work, without going into any details at all; but she thought about letting some member of House's old team know – just to have someone else there who cared about House's well-being.

She would have called his mother, but she thought it best to wait until they knew what was going to happen first. If House was going to be rescued safe and sound, then there was no reason to make the poor woman suffer with worry in the mean time. If he wasn't…

Well, if he wasn't, then Blythe House would be suffering soon enough.

Several times Cuddy was advised by the police officers to just go home, that they'd call her if there was any news; but she couldn't bring herself to go about her daily routine as if nothing was wrong, when House's life was in danger.

She still couldn't wrap her mind around the reality of who it was that was placing his life in danger.

_How could I have never seen this in Wilson? Was it there all the time? Or has he just recently become this… this terrifying, psychotic monster? How did this happen? How long has it been going on – since House first left the hospital? How did Wilson manage to hide it for all these months?_

There were no answers for the questions swirling through her mind. She felt sick with fear, having no idea what to expect from Wilson in this unfamiliar state. He had fled his home, which meant that he knew he had been found out, and was probably desperate and very dangerous – none of which boded well for House.

_Judging by the way Wilson was acting when I last saw him… God, he was going to _kill_ me! This can't be happening… how can this be real?_

She suddenly felt overwhelmed, exhausted, as if the very task of trying to make all of this make sense was simply too much for her mind to take on. She sat down in one of the chairs that lined the wall, resting her head in her hands.

She had barely sat down when the door leading into the lobby area opened, and one of the officers who'd been working House's case entered the room, looking flustered and excited. Cuddy automatically rose to her feet, giving him an anxious, expectant look. He rewarded her with a tentative smile.

"We think we've found them."

"Where?"

"In a small town in Connecticut, at a roadside motel. Someone saw their pictures on the news and says they saw them, checking into one of their motel rooms earlier today. They just now saw the news report, but Wilson's car is still parked outside the room. We've already contacted the local authorities, and we're sending a couple of guys, but they're waiting for the FBI to show up before they make a move."

"FBI?" Cuddy shook her head, bewildered. "Why…?"

"Wilson took Dr. House across state lines. That makes this a federal case of kidnapping." He paused, moving closer to her, his tone softening with understanding. "Considering how dangerous Wilson seems to be, that can only be a _good_ thing."

"Oh, God," Cuddy whispered, raising a hand to cover her face as the reminder of the danger House was in made her throat constrict and her stomach quake. "Oh, no…"

"No, no, this is a _good_ thing," the officer reminded her. "We've found them. Just a few hours ago, Dr. House was all right, and help is on its way to him. We've found him, and we're going to get to them in time."

Cuddy could only hope that he was right.

She picked up her purse from the seat beside her, shouldering it and heading for the door. She knew better than to think she'd do anything but get in the way at the actual scene of the confrontation that was sure to take place; but at the very least she could go to the local police station in the area and be there when House was rescued.

She hadn't even reached her car yet when her cell phone rang. She reached into her purse and took it out, glancing distractedly at the screen. She froze in her tracks, staring in disbelief at the screen, stunned by the name that flashed across it.

_James Wilson_


	29. Chapter 29

Cuddy's mouth was dry, her heart pounding as she pressed the receive button on her phone and raised it to her ear. She hesitated a moment, wincing at the obvious tremor in her own voice when at last she spoke.

"H-hello? Wilson?"

"Yeah." His voice was hoarse, weary. He sounded worse than she did. "It's me."

"Wilson…" Cuddy tried to keep her voice calm and steady. "Where are you? Are you and House all right?"

"No…" His voice was barely over a whisper, and Cuddy thought she heard the faint sound of quiet, breathless sobs on the other line. "… nothing's all right. Everything… That doesn't matter." Wilson's voice was somewhat calmer, as if he was trying to regain control of his emotions. "It… it _won't_ matter. Soon. I just… I needed to tell you. I needed you to know that… I'm sorry."

An uneasy feeling began in the pit of her stomach at the final, fatalistic sound of his words. "What are you sorry for, Wilson?" she cautiously asked him. "What are you going to do?"

"No, that's not what I'm sorry for," Wilson objected, his voice taut with frustration. "I'm sorry because… I hurt you. I don't know… what I was thinking. I just sort of… freaked out. And… and I shouldn't have done that. I… I was trying to protect House, but… but I did it wrong. I've been doing _everything_ wrong…"

"It's all right, Wilson," Cuddy insisted softly, her mind racing ahead of the conversation, desperately trying to think of a way to calm him as she walked quickly back up the sidewalk toward the police station. "Really, it's all right. It doesn't matter. It's not too late to fix this…"

"No, it's _not_ all right," Wilson argued, his voice rising in frustration. "I almost _killed _you! It's not _all right_!" He paused, drawing in a shaky, audible breath before continuing in a tone of quiet resignation. "You're right about one thing. It's not too late to fix this. But… there's only one way to fix it…"

"Wilson, wait a minute," Cuddy pleaded, holding up a hand for silence as she walked up to the dispatcher's desk, making a point of emphasizing his name slightly while making pointed eye contact with the officer behind the desk. "Talk to me. Tell me how this happened... _what's_ happened. I'm so confused, I just don't know what's happened to you..."

The young officer knew why she had spent most of the day at the police station, and instantly got the message when he heard Wilson's name. His eyes widened with realization and he nodded hurriedly, retreating back toward where the detectives' offices were, to find the one who had been handling the case so far.

"I don't think I could ever make you understand, no matter how hard I tried..." Wilson continued, his tears obvious in his despairing voice.

"_Try_, Wilson," Cuddy urged him. "_Please_ try. I... I _want_ to understand..."

Wilson began to tell her in halting, rambling words about how he had come to the conclusion following Amber's death that the outside world wasn't safe for people like House, who just seemed to attract danger and harm wherever they went, whatever they did -- how he had determined that the only way to protect House was to lock him away from the dangers of life and make sure that he was safe.

Cuddy felt a creeping chill steal over her with the reminder of how completely and utterly Wilson had lost his mind. The dangerous flaws in his reasoning were clear as he told her his story, explaining the faulty logic behind the decisions he'd made over the past few months. Her heart went out to House, who must have suffered so greatly in such captivity, and tears of sympathetic pain streaked her face. Still, she listened patiently, interjecting encouraging words or sounds whenever he paused, as the detective came out and silently gestured her through the doors and toward his office.

Once the door was closed behind them, he attached a wire to her cell phone and began typing into his computer, apparently trying to patch it into the call so that he could hear the conversation as well, without putting it on speaker phone. They couldn't take the chance that Wilson might hear a difference in the sound and become suspicious, and therefore cut off the only contact they had with him at the moment.

"I never meant to hurt him, Lisa, I swear!" Wilson was nearly sobbing by now. "But I just kept doing it, over and over, without even trying! All I wanted to do was to keep him safe! But nothing works! There's nothing I can do anymore! When I try to keep him away from the danger -- then I _become_ the danger! Just tell me, what am I supposed to _do_?"

Cuddy kept her tone calm and reassuring as she answered him. "Wilson, I know you only want to keep House safe. I understand that. But you have to know that this is not the way. You can't make every last decision for him. You can't protect him if he doesn't want to be protected. Every person has the right to make those decisions for themselves, you know? What kind of a life can he possibly have if it's a life as a prisoner?"

"That's exactly my point." Wilson's voice was deadly calm by this point, and Cuddy felt her hopes sinking at the sound. "It's no kind of life -- for him or for me. If he's just going to spend it miserable, then what's the point? I can't protect him. I can't protect anyone. And I can't stand to watch him self-destruct. So... that only leaves one option."

"Wilson, no!"

Cuddy objected, her voice rising slightly with her alarm as she understood what he was saying. The detective looked equally horrified at the prospect, but he held up a warning hand, silently urging her to maintain control, and not risk scaring Wilson away. She struggled to fight through her emotional reaction and make her tone even again as she continued in a stern, authoritative tone she had mastered during her years as a hospital administrator.

"You don't get to make that choice, Wilson. Do you understand that? It's not just your life you're talking about, and you do _not_ get to play God here! Whether he's happy or whether he's miserable – whether he lives another fifty years or dies tomorrow – for better or for worse, it should be _House's_ choice!"

Wilson was quiet for a very long time, and Cuddy realized that she was holding her breath, desperately hoping that she was somehow getting through to him. Finally, he spoke again, and his voice was strangely, unsettlingly calm.

"Do you want to say goodbye to House?"

Her stomach dropped with fear at the dark implications of that question – as well as the realization that he was purposefully, plainly deciding to ignore her logical argument – but Cuddy knew that right now, anything they could do to stall Wilson from taking his intended course of action would be a good thing. The detective had passed her a note which she'd hurriedly scanned, telling her that the FBI agents closest to where Wilson and House were hiding were a mere fifteen minutes away.

_If I can just keep him on the phone a little while longer..._

"Of... of course I do, Wilson. Thank you."

A moment later, she heard House's hoarse, slightly dazed voice on the phone. "H-hello?"

"House, it's Cuddy. Is Wilson listening to us right now? Is the phone on speaker or anything?"

House's tone was carefully even and quiet, as if he was doing his best not to further upset his mad captor. "No," he answered softly.

"Okay, good, I need you to listen to me," she continued hurriedly, her voice trembling with the tension and fear of the situation. "Help is on the way, okay? They're only a few minutes away. Whatever happens, just... try to stall him. Try to keep him from doing anything crazy for just ten or fifteen minutes longer, all right?"

"O-okay," House replied, sounding subdued and more than a little confused. "All right."

"Everything's going to be fine, okay? Everything's going to be just fine..."

"Okay," House repeated, sounding only slightly surer.

In the background, Cuddy heard Wilson's voice snap, "That's enough. Give me the phone."

"Thank you," House added in a rush, as an afterthought. "And... I'm sorry, and... goodbye..."

"No, House, no, this is not goodbye!" Cuddy insisted, frustrated and devastated by the defeat she heard in his voice. "House, this is _not_ goodbye, damn it!"

She couldn't be sure whether or not House had heard her words before there were a few moments of muffled staticky sound while the cell phone was returned to Wilson's possession. A moment later, Wilson's voice spoke over the line again, composed and frighteningly in control.

"I have to let you go now, Lisa."

"No! Wilson, don't do this. Don't do what you're thinking of doing..."

"I can't keep talking right now. I just... needed you to know that I'm sorry. And... to understand why I have to do this..."

"Wilson? _Wilson_! Don't..."

"That's all. Thank you for everything. I'm going to hang up now."

"Wilson, no! Wilson, wait, _wait_, no!"

But the phone had already gone dead in her grasp. She lowered it and stared at it in horrified disbelief, her hand trembling violently with the impact of what she knew was about to take place on the other end of that line.

_House… oh, God,_ House… _no…_


	30. Chapter 30

"House… there's something I should tell you before I make this call…"

House huddled in silence against the side of the dresser, looking warily up at his captor, eyes darting from his face to his hands, watching for any sign of immediate danger – not that the danger he was already in could get much more immediate. Still, for some reason, Wilson hadn't carried out his murder/suicide plan yet; and House knew that whatever was stalling him, it certainly had to be a _good_ thing.

"I… I lied to you before. About Cuddy. She's… she's not dead. I didn't kill her."

House felt an overwhelming tremor of relief pass through his body with those words, despite the fact that his mind was racing ahead, warning him not to accept Wilson's claim at face value. It was possible that Wilson was lying _now_, for some reason, though House couldn't figure out what he hoped to gain by that – what he hoped to gain _at all_, if he really intended for this to be the end for them.

_Maybe he just doesn't want me to die thinking of him like that. Maybe he wants for things to be okay between us at the end. Don't know how he expects that to happen when he's the one who's making it the end…_

"Not because I didn't try," Wilson continued, a regretful grimace on his face as he slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. "Because I did." He paused, his voice solemn and quiet when he went on. "I… I'm glad I failed. I don't know why I told you she was dead."

This new piece of information out-ruled House's theory, and he reconsidered the situation in light of it for a moment before his shoulders began to shake with relief. There was no reason for Wilson to lie and say that Cuddy was alive, but admit that he'd tried to kill her, if his goal was leaving House with as favorable an impression of him as possible. Shaking his head, House finally looked up at Wilson through eyes blazing with quiet resentment.

"I know why," he stated softly, a challenging edge to his trembling voice. "Because you were trying to control me. Because you thought I wouldn't resist you anymore if I thought I'd already caused Cuddy to die by resisting you before… and you were right."

Wilson visibly tensed at House's explanation of his motives – but he didn't speak a word in denial of them.

"But now," House continued, a grim note of resignation in his voice. "Now… you don't care anymore. You've already decided that we're both going to die in just a few minutes… so what's the point?"

"House…" Wilson's tone was warning. "Stop it…"

"Why?" House demanded, quietly defiant. "You're going to kill me anyway."

"I said _stop it_!"

Wilson snarled, rising to his feet and angrily kicking out at House, connecting with his hip with only moderate force. Still, House flinched, going silent and bracing himself for greater pain. Wilson relented immediately at his reaction, burying his face in his hands and letting out a shaky sigh of defeat.

"See, this… this is just pointless. I can't keep control for five seconds." He raised his head, setting the gun down on the bed beside him and raising his cell phone again. "We need to just get this finished with… but first… I need to make a call."

House was only mildly surprised when he realized that Wilson had dialed Cuddy. It made more sense than most of the decisions Wilson had been making lately. He listened quietly while Wilson explained his actions to Cuddy, trying not to show any reaction to the ludicrous things his friend was saying. Wilson's excuses might have meant more to him if he hadn't already suffered so long under the terrifying power of Wilson's delusions.

_Doesn't matter. It'll be over in a few minutes, anyway._

But then, Wilson gave House the phone and let him talk to Cuddy – and everything changed.

_Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. If I can wait that long… if I can get Wilson to wait… then maybe we'll be okay. If they can get to him and stop him before he kills us… then… maybe…_ maybe…

Wilson spoke to Cuddy for less than a minute longer – House was watching the digital clock on the nightstand and knew exactly how long – before hanging up the phone and replacing it in his pocket. Without a word to House, Wilson turned around and picked up the gun again, making sure it was ready to fire.

"So… this is how it's going to end, then?" House spoke up, trying to keep his voice even and calm despite the racing of his heart in reaction to the sight of the gun in Wilson's hand. "You're just going to put a gun to my head and kill me like this? On my knees on this filthy floor, tied up and suffering?"

"That's the point, House." Wilson's voice was terse, and he very deliberately avoided making eye contact as he spoke. "I'm going to _end_ your suffering, don't you get it? I… I'm your friend, and I care about you, and I can't… can't let you hurt anymore. That's why I'm doing this. Don't be scared; it'll be over in an instant. You won't feel it; you won't suffer."

"What if I _want_ to suffer?" House shot back in urgent defiance, instinctively testing the bonds at his wrists, though he already knew they would hold. "What if I'd rather suffer any kind of pain than to not be alive anymore?"

Wilson let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head – still not meeting House's eyes.

"I don't believe that, House. For as long as I've known you, you've never acted like that was true. When you had the infarction, and every day since, you've made it perfectly clear to everyone around you that you were absolutely miserable – that the kind of pain you deal with every day is a fate worse than death to you. No, you've made it absolutely clear what you want – what's best for you – and this is it."

Wilson took aim with the gun as he spoke, and House's mouth went dry with fear. He cringed, struggling to maintain control as he pressed on, trying to distract Wilson for as long as possible.

"So… why like this? Why so… bloody and violent?" he questioned, looking up and hoping to catch Wilson's averted gaze. "Why not do it an easier way?"

Finally, Wilson looked at him, eyes narrowed in suspicious interest. He didn't speak, but simply quietly waited for House to go on, a question in the slight tilt of his head. House was quiet for a moment, holding Wilson's gaze for a moment before he ventured a soft, loaded question.

"How much of my Vicodin do you have on hand?"

Wilson's eyes widened with understanding, and he glanced toward his briefcase. The wondering, hesitant expression on his face told House that he probably did indeed have enough Vicodin in there to take both their lives – if they had to wait longer than the few minutes it would take help to get there, anyway.

"It would be so much easier," House softly tempted his friend, keeping his tone mild and calm, unwilling to arouse Wilson's suspicions by seeming overly eager. "We could go quietly and peacefully – just like going to sleep. Not so much violence – and a lot more poetry, don't you think?"

"I… I don't know," Wilson murmured thoughtfully, a frown creasing his brow as he set the gun down beside the briefcase and began digging through it again. "I'm… not sure…"

"Come on, Wilson," House urged him quietly, putting a note of pleading into his voice. "I don't wanna go like this. It's… bloody and ugly and it will be a nightmare for the people who find us – and I'm not just talking about the motel cleaning crew. Think of cuddy. Think of your family." He paused, a faint tremor in his lowered voice as he added, "Think of my _mom_."

Wilson seemed torn as he raised two orange vials in one hand, staring at it in visible indecision. He frowned, shaking his head slightly.

"No. It'll take too long. It's probably not a good idea…"

Even as he spoke, however, Wilson crossed the room to the dresser to which House was bound. He opened the vials one at a time and poured the contents out on the smooth wooden surface. One of the bottles was only about half full, but the other had not yet been touched.

"Wilson, that's more than enough for both of us," House insisted. "It wouldn't take more than an hour or two. It'd just be like going to sleep…"

"I don't know…" Wilson softly repeated, taking a few of the pills in his hand and rolling them slowly back and forth. "I'm not sure… how long we'll have… before they come looking for us."

"Surely we've got a couple of hours," House pointed out. "We didn't see anyone following us or anything…"

"It's been all over the news, House," Wilson reminded him, but the irritation all seemed to have seeped out of his voice, leaving his tone soft and pensive. "Someone might have seen us. For all we know the cops could be on their way now."

House did his best not to show any reaction to those words, so much more true than Wilson realized; and had he been dealing with someone who was not his best friend, and had not spent the last fourteen years getting to know every nuance of his expressions and reactions, they might not have picked up on anything.

But unfortunately, it was Wilson he was dealing with.

Some faint trace of something in House's expression must have given Wilson a clue that something wasn't quite right. His eyes narrowed and he dropped the pills onto the dresser, taking a menacing step nearer to House.

"Unless… that's what you're hoping for," he suggested, watching House's expression closely. "Unless you're just hoping that the process takes long enough that someone might get to us and stop us before it's over."

House was silent for a moment, considering continuing the lie – but what was the point, really? Wilson knew him too well. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand again, noting that ten minutes had already passed. The help Cuddy had promised could literally arrive at any moment.

With any luck, he could change tactics and still manage to draw things out enough to live until then.

He allowed a faint, sardonic smirk to touch his lips, though his eyes were solemn and challenging when he finally replied. "Can you really blame me, Wilson?"

"I _trusted _you!" Wilson snapped in rising outrage born of his mad paranoia.

"_Why_?" House demanded, raising his voice to match Wilson's. "Why would I actually want to _help_ you figure out a better way to off us? I already told you, Wilson, but you just won't listen. You think you know what's best for me, but you don't give a damn what I want! I told you – I want to _live_."

A crashing sound at the door interrupted House's furious words, and both men turned to look toward it, eyes wide and startled. House looked back at Wilson in alarm as he rushed toward the bed and took up his gun again.

"They're here. We're out of time."

Wilson's voice was cold and determined as he raised the gun and pressed it hard against House's temple. House winced at the pain as his head was trapped between the muzzle of the weapon and the wall behind him. The sound of splintering wood from the doorway was accompanied by a bright flash of sunlight filtering through a dozen newly formed cracks in the door.

"I didn't want it to be this way, House," Wilson muttered, finger ready on the trigger. "I wanted us to have time to say goodbye."

House tried to pull away, but there was no time, as another crash turned the thin ray of light into a flood. House barely had time to process the information that the police had gotten the door down.

A moment later, a deafening shot filled the room.


	31. Chapter 31

An explosion of sound and darkness and pain was all that House was aware of for a long moment. He couldn't breathe, and his chest ached, his heart seized with a sudden, sinking certainty that this was it – the end. It was over. Relief mingled with the despair that thought carried, that at last the nightmare of his imprisonment and Wilson's insanity would end.

And then… everything began slowly fading back again.

He opened his eyes, blinking into the late afternoon sunlight that flooded the room, overwhelmed by the rush of voices and footsteps as the tiny motel room filled up with police officers and FBI agents. His head ached, and he could feel the warm rush of something wet trickling down his temple. He looked around the room, but couldn't seem to see Wilson – couldn't seem to focus on anything at all. Disoriented and confused, one thought still made its way into his consciousness.

_You're bleeding… but you're conscious and aware… so he couldn't have shot you in the head. But… then… how…?_

Someone crouched directly in front of him, and House flinched instinctively. In his recent experience, anyone getting that close to him was the first indication that some form of pain or suffering was about to take place. He cringed, jerking back away from the young police officer as he reached for something attached to his belt.

"Easy, not gonna hurt you," the officer murmured, holding up his free hand in a gesture of harmless intent before carefully reaching to grasp the handcuffs that bound House to the dresser. He took a small key from his belt and explained quietly as he turned it in the lock. "It's like a skeleton key; should open just about any set of cuffs."

As the handcuffs fell away from his chafed, sore wrists, House couldn't quite process what was happening. He looked blankly up at the officers milling about the room, vaguely aware as he heard one of them calling for two ambulances to be sent to the scene. He glanced down toward a source of commotion, a point around which several officers were gathered – and froze when he recognized Wilson's prone form on the floor a few feet away from him.

A sense of panic rose up within him at the sight – followed by a self-directed fury that he should feel such fear, such concern, for the man who had kept him chained up and degraded like less than an animal for the past several months.

_But… it's _Wilson_. God, what if they killed Wilson? _

The thought was barely formed before it was followed by a second, far more reasonable observation.

_Two ambulances._ Two. _That means… he's still alive…_

"Hey…" A soft voice spoke close at hand, and House looked toward it to see that a female officer had joined the young man already crouching at his side. "… can you stand up? Are you hurt anywhere, besides…" Her voice trailed off as she reached a hand up toward the source of the pain in his head.

House shook his head slightly, his thoughts confused and fuzzy. "What… what happened…?"

"The gun hit your head when he was shot," she explained gently. "It looks like just a surface wound. You should be fine, but we'll let the paramedics check for sure when they get here."

"Wilson," House whispered, his gaze returning to his friend. "Is he… is he gonna…"

A brief flash of confusion passed over the face of the male officer at his question, before he answered quietly, glancing toward his colleagues who were working over Wilson, following basic first aid procedures to stop the bleeding. "The paramedics will do all that they can, and we'll get him to a hospital as quickly as possible."

"Right now, though," the woman interjected with concern, "we need to worry about making sure that you're all right…"

"I'm okay," House whispered, his gaze locked onto Wilson.

Now that he knew he hadn't been shot, he barely felt the sluggishly bleeding wound at his temple. All he could think about was whether or not Wilson was going to be all right, and trying to figure out how he felt about that question – and how he _should_ feel about it. He watched the officers working with Wilson, doing everything they could – doing everything right.

If they hadn't been, House wasn't sure whether or not he would have stepped in to try to help.

He wasn't sure whether he wanted Wilson to live or to die.

He wasn't sure of anything at all.

When the ambulances arrived a few minutes later, the officers with House waited while the paramedics rushed in and loaded Wilson onto a stretcher. Accompanied by two armed FBI agents, they put him in the back of one of the ambulances and rushed away. The entire process took under a minute by House's observation.

"Okay," the male officer said quietly once they wouldn't be risking getting in the way. "Let's get you out of here, all right? Come on. Let me help you…"

House flinched at the firm touch under his arm, helping him carefully to his feet. The female officer placed her hand on his back to steady him, and he felt his body begin to tremble. After so long in isolation, with the only human touch always leading to pain and punishment, so much physical contact was disconcerting and overwhelming.

But resistance had always led to suffering as well; so House simply followed along, allowing them to guide him toward the waiting ambulance.

He felt lost, confused, with a vague detached sense of surreality, as they helped him into the back of the vehicle. The female officer got in with him, sitting beside him and placing what she certainly thought was a comforting hand on his knee.

"You're going to be just fine," she assured him softly. "It's over now."

_No, it's not._

House knew better.

_It's far from over._

************************

He was quiet and withdrawn, not speaking a word as the emergency room staff checked him over, making sure that the head wound was the worst of his injuries. His wrists ached from being bound for so long, and he was covered in various bruises and other marks of the abuse Wilson had inflicted. His limbs were stiff and sore from prolonged disuse, and he was fairly certain he probably had a mild case of malnutrition from the irregular meals Wilson had provided, consisting of mostly fast food hamburgers and french fries. Though there weren't really any physical signs to point to, he knew that he was probably a little dehydrated as well.

He didn't offer any of this information to the staff hovering around him, though he was fairly certain they were missing some of it.

He didn't dare correct them; he had learned well the lesson not to argue.

A part of his mind was aware that he should feel relieved – should feel _happy_, even – to have finally been released from the nightmare of the past few months. Somehow, however – he felt nothing. There was a cold numbness deep in his chest that seemed to extend to his thoughts as well, as if the greater part of him didn't quite believe that this was real – that he was finally _free _again.

He kept expecting to wake up and find himself back in the prison of Wilson's basement, chained down to the floor and naked and helplessly waited for whatever Wilson decided to do to him next.

When the nurses and doctors spoke to him, House barely even answered. He nodded or shook his head when he could, only whispering responses to their questions when absolutely necessary. Even then, he didn't dare to so much as meet their eyes as he spoke. A part of his mind was aware that it didn't make sense – that these people would not hurt him as Wilson had done for such trivial infractions.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to break the "rules" that had been so brutally instilled into his mind.

Once they had finished the rather cursory physical and bandaged his head and wrists, they moved House to a private room, where they attached an IV to replenish his nutrients and fluids, and told him to try to sleep.

"The police will want to talk to you," one of the doctors warned him apologetically. "But they can wait until you're feeling a little better." He hesitated, clearly ready to leave the room, but unwilling to leave the obviously vulnerable, damaged patient. "Is there… someone we can call for you? Someone you'd like to meet you here?"

One of the police officers had asked the same question back at the motel, House vaguely remembered. He also remembered simply shaking his head, not really paying attention to the question, too focused on what was happening to Wilson and whether or not he'd be okay.

Now, he looked up at the doctor, startled – as if just then remembering that there were other people in his life, other people who'd existed and cared about him before Wilson had locked him away from the world.

_Cuddy… she's probably on her way…_

_My mom… God, my_ mom. _What will she _think_…?_

He hesitated, wanting to ask the doctor to call his mother for him – and yet dreading the idea of her hearing about everything that had happened to him. He thought back to the funeral, and to all that she'd lost so recently. He couldn't bear the idea of adding himself and his own recent trauma to the list of her burdens. His lips parted to speak, but he couldn't find the words to say, couldn't decide how best to answer the doctor's questions.

At that moment, there was a quiet knock on the door to his room, just before it opened and a familiar face peered around the corner.

Cuddy.

Immediately upon seeing House, she lost all sense of courtesy or propriety and rushed into the room and to his side.

"House," she gasped with obvious relief, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching out to take his head. "My God, I thought you were… I thought…"

House didn't mean to. He knew she wouldn't hurt him; yet somehow he couldn't help it. He flinched at her sudden nearness, jerking his hand away from hers. Cuddy's words died instantly, her eyes widening with dismay as she took in his reaction.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, House, I didn't mean to…"

He shook his head, eyes downcast, feeling his face flush warm with shame. "It's nothing," he muttered. "It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't…?" she echoed in disbelief, her voice trailing off as she shook her head. "House… you've just been through… How can you say it doesn't _matter_? You have every right to whatever reaction you have right now! _I'm_ the one who wasn't thinking. How many trauma patients have I dealt with, and I come in here…" She shook her head again in clear frustration with herself. "I'm sorry," she repeated softly. She was quiet for a moment before adding gently, "But… you're safe now. And the doctors told me you're going to be okay."

_Am I? Am I really?_

"I called your mother," Cuddy informed him, and House looked up at her sharply in alarm. In response to his wordless look, Cuddy added defensively, "She had to know, House. You can't just keep this from her forever."

"I don't want her to worry," he whispered, looking away – though he wasn't quite sure that was his actual reason for not wanting to call her.

"Like she hasn't already been worried for the past few months?" Cuddy pointed out. "She's seen you one day in four months – and that was for your father's funeral. And _then,_ you were visibly drugged out of your mind and… and _not _okay. You think she could be any more worried than she already is?"

House couldn't deny the truth of her words. He knew that regardless of his discomfort, his mother had the right to know where he was and that he was okay. She had just lost her husband; the last thing she needed was to think that she had lost her son as well.

"But… you don't need to worry about that right now," Cuddy went on, her voice softening with compassion. "She's flying in right now, should be here in a few hours. I've spoken with your doctors and let them know that I'm your PCP. I'll get you sent back to PPTH as soon as possible if that's what you want…"

"It's not." House's voice was hoarse, barely over a whisper, as he stared down at the bed.

Cuddy considered that for a moment, then nodded in understanding. "Then… I'll take a few personal days. It's not unheard of – for anyone but me, anyway." She gave him a rueful half-smile. "I'll supervise your care here…" She paused, hesitation creeping into her voice. "That is… if you _want_ me to…"

House finally looked up at her, sensing the vulnerability and uncertainty in her voice. He tried to control the emotions that were sliding back into place, tried to keep his expression calm and neutral, even as his eyes filled with tears that in the past he'd never have allowed her to see fall. Despite his efforts, words slipped from his lips before he could stop them, a hushed, trembling whisper.

"I thought you were dead."

Cuddy's expression crumpled and she bit her lip to hold back a sob, a tremor passing through her shoulders as her own eyes glittered with tears. She cautiously moved forward to put her arms around him again; and this time he did not pull away, simply lowered his head to rest on her shoulder in quiet acceptance of the comfort she offered.

"I thought you were, too," she whispered back. "But you're okay. You're going to be just fine, House. Okay? You're going to be just fine."

He simply stayed there in silence, allowing her to comfort him as best she knew how, and trying desperately to believe that her words might be true.


	32. Chapter 32

House's mother arrived a couple of hours later, immediately fussing over him, concerned and confused about exactly what had happened to him. The police had given her only very minimal details, informing her that he had been involved in a hostage situation, but he was going to be all right. House appreciated that courtesy, but it didn't really help him much.

He wasn't at all sure how much to tell her.

He allowed her to hug him, quietly reassuring her that he was all right; but when she asked him what had happened, how he'd come to be in such a dangerous situation, he just told her that he didn't want to talk about it. She accepted that for no more than a few minutes at a time before hesitantly attempting to broach the subject again, clearly confused and full of far more questions than he was capable of dealing with at the moment.

There was a part of him that was grateful for her presence, soothed by her comforting touch and her motherly fussing; and there was yet another part of him that was upset and confused, uncertain as to how to talk to her or what to tell her, troubled by the fact that he had to spare her feelings and protect her from what had been done to him, and he wasn't quite sure how to do that.

Mostly, though – mostly, he was just numb.

He had no idea what he was supposed to be thinking or feeling – what was "normal" in a situation like this.

He considered the possibility that "this" had never actually happened before, and therefore perhaps there _was_ no "normal" for it.

The fact that his mother didn't ask about Wilson made House wonder if perhaps she had picked up on something at his father's funeral, after all. The last time she'd spoken to him, Wilson was the only one with whom he was known to be in contact; therefore it would only make sense, in such an urgent situation, for Wilson to be at the hospital with House – but he wasn't, as far as she knew.

And yet – she didn't ask about him.

House didn't volunteer the information, either – but his thoughts were incessantly focused on the guarded room somewhere in this hospital, far out of sight from his own room, where Wilson was being treated. He was already technically in police custody, his comatose form chained to his bed, and an armed guard stationed outside the door.

House was partly relieved and partly indignant for the man that he still cared about more than could possibly be normal, in his opinion. After all, how dangerous could he be, in a coma caused by a nearly fatal gunshot wound? A shudder passed through House as he remembered Wilson's dark eyes, glittering with mad rage as he'd struck out at House in the basement, and despite his own rational assessment of the situation, he was suddenly very glad for the unnecessary handcuffs.

House remained very quiet and composed for most of his stay at the hospital, submitting to whatever treatments and tests and procedures the medical staff – closely observed by Cuddy – decided on. Several times she came to him and asked him if he approved of everything that was being done, clearly trusting his opinion above that of the strangers in charge of his care.

Without fail, he would simply nod and hesitantly reply that whatever they thought was best was fine with him. He had to look away from the sorrow in her eyes when he would answer, knowing what she had to be thinking as she would lean forward and hug him almost by instinct – certainly not because he'd ever indicated that it was what he _wanted_, not now, or at any other time in their rather rocky relationship.

Regardless of what he felt about it, when Cuddy or his mother hugged him, or when the doctors carried out their routine procedures, or when the police came in to ask him questions – without fail, House complied totally. He didn't dare pull away or refuse or resist in any way, he'd been so completely, thoroughly trained to obedience.

On one level, he knew none of these people would hurt him.

On another, he was always on edge, just waiting to make some accidental misstep that would result in the pain and degradation that had become such a constant in his life.

Once he'd been there for a week, they had determined that there was no permanent physical damage, and he'd regained enough strength to go home. Of course, neither Cuddy nor his mother thought it was a good idea for him to go home alone just yet. Mrs. House suggested that he come home with her, but House felt a little sick and very uneasy at that prospect. He loved his mother, but he didn't want to be a burden to her; and he didn't want to spend the next several weeks dealing with her persistent questions, trying to avoid them while still searching for a way to put her mind at ease.

He listened gratefully as Cuddy calmly argued that he needed to be under the care of his own physician – namely her – and would be more comfortable and recover more quickly if he was in familiar surroundings.

"I'll take him back to Princeton and help him settle back into his own place," she offered. "Don't worry, I'll keep a close eye on him. I'll even stay with him for a few days if he'll let me, just to make sure he's all right."

House was aware that a few months earlier, he'd have been irritated and indignant at the way they were speaking about him as if he wasn't there. He'd have angrily informed them that it was _his_ decision, and he didn't need either of them to babysit him, that he would be just fine on his own without their help.

But, House didn't _have _his own decisions anymore.

He had grown accustomed to being treated like an object, a possession – a person that might as well not have existed at all.

He quietly accepted Cuddy's offer, and allowed her to drive him home. Once there she busied herself about his apartment for a while, cleaning up and arranging things for his convenience, keeping up a steady stream of pleasant, casual, and utterly one-sided conversation. All the while, House just sat on the edge of his sofa, staring around him at the surroundings and possessions that should have been intimately familiar, but now seemed like things he'd only once dreamed, a long time ago.

When Cuddy couldn't find anything else to do, she finally sat down on the sofa beside him, reaching out to gently take his hand. He flinched slightly, not quite pulling away, before staring down blankly at their joined hands. He finally looked up to meet her eyes with the same dull, blank expression, not sure what he was supposed to do now.

"Th-thank you," he whispered at last uncertainly.

His mind was suddenly assailed with vicious memories of being forced to thank Wilson for the things he had done that he'd perceived as for House's own good. He remembered Wilson flying into a rage when House would forget to thank him for basic needs such as feeding him or helping him use the bathroom, and a shudder passed through him. He instinctively raised his free hand to wrap around his torso, shrinking in on himself and pressing back against the sofa.

Even in his retreat, he didn't dare retrieve the hand Cuddy held.

Her brow creased with concern as she gently stroked her thumb across the back of his trembling hand. "It's okay," she whispered. "You're safe now, House. I promise, he can't hurt you anymore."

House nodded automatically, outwardly accepting her words – though inwardly they were nothing but meaningless noise.

"It'll get better," she continued softly. "Give it a little time, for you to… to get used to things again. And… I'll make an appointment for you to… to talk to someone, about what happened, and… and you're going to be fine, House. You're going to be just fine."

She might have thought she was hiding it well, but House could hear the uncertainty in her voice, and knew that she knew as well as he did that that might never be true.

Cuddy took the first couple of days back off from work, spending them at House's apartment so that he would not be alone. She left for short periods of time, just long enough to go to her own house and get something she needed, or run to the grocery store.

It took House only the first two such trips to realize that they were trial runs.

Cuddy wanted to be sure that he could be left on his own without doing something dangerously insane.

_I'm not crazy. I'm not._

He didn't think she'd believe it any more than he did if he actually said the words aloud.

Finally, she had to go back to work, and House was almost relieved at the loss of the pressure of constantly trying to be "okay" for her, to ease her fears for him. That relief, however, didn't last any longer than the first hour he spent alone. His memories crowded in on him, and the television couldn't get loud enough to drown them out. The first evening when she came by after work, Cuddy found House huddled in a corner of his bedroom, his head covered by his trembling arms, trying to hide from some unseen threat.

"I'll take some more time off," she told him once she had managed to calm him down. "I can work from here."

"No," he whispered, looking up at her with quiet resolution in his gaze. "You can't just… put your life on hold for me. You need to go back to work."

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, and he could see the desire to argue in her eyes – until her shoulders dropped slightly and she nodded, hesitantly agreeing to his words. "You're right. I can have someone come by to stay with you…"

"No." House winced slightly at the harsh sound of his own voice, and his next words were more tentative, pleading. "I… I'd rather not have… anyone else…"

"All right," Cuddy replied without hesitation, reaching out to touch his hand in reassurance. "I'll just come by after work to check on you – and you call me if you need anything during the day, okay? I'll be here in ten minutes."

House nodded his acceptance of her offer, already knowing he would never call her.

Not that he didn't want to, many times, over the course of the next week.

He wished for her to leave, to avoid the awkward lack of conversation – or just to relieve her from thinking she had to try to make it – until she was gone, when the torment of his own mind overwhelmed the awkwardness and made him wish for her company again. He began to find ways to busy himself while she was gone.

* * *

Every day when Cuddy arrived to check on House, she found his apartment immaculate as it had never been in the days before his captivity. Usually, she found him working on some invented project – organizing his CD collection, or rearranging the furniture in the living room, or taking out every dish in the kitchen cupboards and replacing them in different cupboards.

Mindless, unnecessary tasks intended for nothing more than to keep him from thinking too much.

She had the sorrowful suspicion that they didn't really work.

Even on the rare occasions when House watched TV – which was not usually enough to keep his mind distracted – Cuddy noticed that he never stayed still. For a man with a bad leg that caused him pain when he over-used it, she knew it could not be a pleasant thing; and yet, House seemed to be constantly in motion. He would pace the living room floor, glancing occasionally at the screen, never content to sit in one place for long.

Cuddy remembered what little Wilson had told her of House's experience with him, and felt a rush of sympathy as she realized that House's compulsive movement was probably due to his being forcibly bound in one place for so long – and she didn't try to stop him, even when she knew it had to be hurting his leg.

She was worried about him.

He had rejected her attempts to get him to talk to a therapist, obediently attending the appointments when she took him, but then quietly refusing to engage in any kind of meaningful interaction while he was there. Cuddy tried to talk to him herself, but he wouldn't say anything more than was absolutely necessary.

He didn't so much as ask about Wilson's condition, though she knew he had to be wondering.

That was why when Cuddy came home from the hospital with the news that Wilson had awakened from his coma, she was stunned by House's unexpected response. He stopped his ceaseless pacing of the living room, looking at her through wide, startled eyes for a long, silent moment, before making the only outright demand he had dared to make of anyone since his rescue, his voice quiet but strong and certain.

"I want to talk to him."


End file.
